


The Dating Game

by kazvl



Series: Fire and Ice [4]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-20 17:19:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazvl/pseuds/kazvl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An out-of-practice forty two year old man starts to date the most difficult man in London. Naturally, it goes splendidly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Игра в свидания](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3981949) by [Bathilda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bathilda/pseuds/Bathilda)



> Thank you so much for translating this - I'm honoured and thrilled to bits.
> 
>  
> 
> With many thanks to Beth H for her beta.

THE DATING GAME

CHAPTER ONE: NOVEMBER 2008

 

Tuesday, 11th November

"For a busy Detective Inspector, you managed to find time to send a great many texts," said a familiar voice.

Lestrade almost spilled tea onto his keyboard. "Who is this?" he asked happily.

"Really, Gregory. Twenty seven texts?"

"I'm breaking you in gently. Is everything all right?"

"Everything's fine. You?"

"Well, I've just spent nine hours out in the freezing cold in the company of your brother. I think he ran out of ways of calling me 'stupid' around hour six," said Lestrade, wry because some of Sherlock's remarks _had_ stung. "Oh, and he also informed about fifteen coppers and SOCOs that the sex I'd had over the weekend had obviously addled my already feeble wits. I resisted the temptation to wipe the smile off his face by telling him who my partner had been."

"Thank you," said Mycroft with real gratitude.

"It was sheer self-preservation. I see far more of him than you do. He'd make my life even more of a misery."

"Is it very bad?"

"How long have you known him?" returned Lestrade, but he was smiling again because he hadn't been sure if Mycroft would ring. 

A faint sigh wafted down the line. "I'll have a word with him." The word 'another' hovered.

"No need," said Lestrade easily. "I took him to one side and tried blackmail."

"Basic courtesy or no case files?"

"Got it in one. My needs are small," joked Lestrade.

"Gregory, I _am_ sorry. I don't believe I fully thought through the implications for you when I first..."

"I know you didn't," said Lestrade calmly. "But I can't regret it. Quite apart from the fact Sherlock gets us to the truth quicker - always presuming we would have got there at all, of course, and leaving aside the fact I still need to find the evidence that will satisfy a court - I seem to have developed a fondness for men with umbrellas."

"I'm delighted to hear it," said Mycroft, after a moment.

To Lestrade's biased ear he sounded pleased. 

"I think part of the problem is that, like me, this homeless case is affecting Sherlock - if not in the same way. Unlike us mere mortals - obviously I exclude you from that sweeping statement - Sherlock isn't used to failing. I can't say I enjoy it, but this homeless case... Preliminary forensics indicate that the new body parts which turned up yesterday had been moved there by rats. The whole area's alive with them, so I should have considered them earlier - and foxes, of course. You aren't eating, are you?" Lestrade thought to ask.

"Fortunately not, although that is why I rang. I wondered if you would be free for dinner tonight?"

"Something to look forward to. If you don't mind waiting an hour or so?"

"The car will be waiting by the Monck Street entrance from eight thirty."

"Mycroft, you can't park..."

"I sometimes have cause to use diplomatic plates," Mycroft said smoothly.

"Which country?" asked Lestrade with interest.

"It varies."

"According to who pisses you off?"

"I couldn't possibly comment."

"No surprise there then," grinned Lestrade. "See you later. And I promise not to discuss work while we're eating."

"I suspect I would survive."

Lestrade was willing to put money on the fact Mycroft was smiling too.

With a decent incentive ahead of him, Lestrade cleared his outstanding paperwork in record time. He was about to leave his office when his phone rang.

 

While D.C. Wanduragala drove them to the crime scene, Lestrade texted Mycroft. 

'sorry have 2 deal with dead body as DS skiving tomorrow night OK 4 u G'

'I might have to text on occasion but I refuse to acknowledge those ridiculous abbreviations. Until tomorrow. Would a little punctuation hurt? Mycroft'

'5 by 5 G'

'? Mycroft'

'Don't you mean WTF? G'

'I should like to meet the person who said you were amusing. Mycroft'

"Sir, we're here," said Wanduragala, who had only been out of uniform for a week and had yet to learn to hide his excitement.

Lestrade sighed and texted, 'Got 2 go. G' before tucking away his phone. It was going to be a long night.

Wednesday, 12th November

Lestrade's heart sank when he saw he had a voice mail from Mycroft.

"My apologies, Gregory. I shall be unavailable for at least four days, perhaps longer. Sunday? Text if you must. Mycroft."

Smiling, Lestrade texted: 'Sunday it is. Keep safe.'

His reply arrived a couple of hours later. 'Not a field agent. Mycroft.'

'You'll be claiming there's no Aston Martin next. G'

Sunday, 16th November

'It appears I shall be unavailable for longer than I thought. I hope to be free by Wednesday afternoon. I trust your case is going well. Mycroft Holmes.'

Lestrade listened to the voice mail three times. Mycroft sounded...ridiculous to think he sounded depressed. But he'd added his surname - as if he thought he might not be remembered otherwise. Ridiculous, Lestrade told himself again. But unable to shake off the sense that something was wrong, he decided it couldn't hurt to offer reassurance, even if none had been requested, and began to text.

'In case you were wondering, I haven't killed Sherlock. He's clean and happy as a sandboy working at the mortuary - don't ask doing what, I really don't want to have to ask. My murder is sorted bar never-ending paperwork. Due in court Wednesday but should be free after five. G'

'Don't wear that blue tie to court, it's stained. Until Wednesday. Mycroft.'

Lestrade shook his head with a wry smile, then peered down. Buggered if Mycroft wasn't right. Damn. He spat on his handkerchief and began to rub the spot, which did nothing to help.

It was a good two hours before it occurred to him to wonder how Mycroft knew what tie he was wearing.

'Have you got S under surveillance again? G'

'Given that I had to rely on you for vital information regarding his health, of course. Mycroft'

'Should I wave next time I'm with S? G'

'While that would undoubtedly be pleasant, best not. I wouldn't want to over-excite Moneypenny. Mycroft.'

'Picture quality must be good for you to spot stains on my tie. G'

'In this instance yes. Unfortunately, not when relying on CCTV, so check your ties. Mycroft'

'I was about to send you a smiley face. G'

'Thank you for resisting temptation. I'm afraid I shall be out of contact for a while. Have you considered taking advice from an expert in pest control? On rat movement and behaviour. Mycroft.'

Monday, 18th November

'Gotta love clever men - with obvious exception of S. Am turning into expert on rats. Never eating out in London again. G' 

 

Tuesday, 19th November

'Glad cd help. Fri. + long wkend? M'

The abbreviations left Lestrade staring at the text, worrying, before common sense said that Mycroft was just in a rush.

'Any time. Greg'

Friday, 22nd November

Lestrade felt obscurely guilty for taking his two days off twice in two weeks, let alone taking another weekend, but it didn't stop his buzz of anticipation as he quickly changed the bedding and cleaned the bits of the flat that showed. That done, he checked that his smart phone was fully charged and headed out to be a tourist until Mycroft should be free; it was that or hang around the flat like a love-lorn teenager.

The weather was damp and grey enough to make being out of doors undesirable, so Lestrade decided to revisit the Geometric Stair at St. Paul's Cathedral. He never got tired of marvelling at the stone staircase spiralling upwards.

He emerged onto the street from St Paul's tube station and headed off in the direction of the main doors of the cathedral. A few moments later he was astonished to see a familiar figure strolling towards him, umbrella swinging at a jaunty angle.

Lestrade's smile of delight froze when doubt set in.

"Is something wrong?" asked Mycroft with obvious concern.

"No, course not. I wasn't sure if it was all right for me to recognise you in public." 

"Ashamed to be seen with me?"

"I'm supposed to be the comedian. I meant, in case you were working."

The severity of Mycroft's expression eased into a smile of considerable charm. "How many times must I say this. I am not, nor have I ever been, a field agent. And you may approach me wherever and whenever you like."

"The urge is fading rapidly. What are you doing so far from Whitehall? And looking so funereal."

"That's because I've just been to a funeral."

Lestrade eyes widened. "Me and my big mouth. I'm so sorry."

"Good Lord, don't be," said Mycroft cheerfully. "He was a loathsome man. But for my sense of decorum - and the fact I would probably trip over my own feet - I'd be dancing a tarantella on his coffin. Most of us only attended to make sure he _was_ dead." 

"Oh, you mean..." began Lestrade, as he remembered an item glimpsed on the news a few weeks before. He trailed off into a discreet silence.

"Never mind him. More to the point, what are you doing here?"

"Playing tourist until you were free. Do you have to go back to work?"

"I hope this isn't tempting fate, but no. The domestic side often quietens down by Friday afternoon because so many politicians leave for their constituencies - if they can't think of an excuse to get out of it."

"Cynic."

"Very probably."

"It must be the company you keep," said Lestrade cheerfully. "At least I only meet a nice class of murderer. Can you spend the weekend with me?"

Mycroft wondered if he would ever become accustomed to such emotional openness. "Yes," he said promptly.

"Excellent! Come on. I know you'll love this as much as I do."

Mycroft experienced a distinct sinking feeling. "Where are we going?" he enquired, as he followed Lestrade.

"St. Paul's Cathedral. On the tour."

"Tour?"

"For tourists," explained Lestrade unhelpfully.

Preoccupied, Mycroft didn't rise to the bait. "May I ask why?"

"Have you ever been on the tour?"

Mycroft swallowed the first reply that sprang to mind. "I've attended various events - services, I should say - like today's, for instance, but otherwise no."

"You'll understand when we get there. This staircase can't be seen unless you go on the tour."

Mycroft pensively abandoned hopes of lunch and then, because funerals always made him randy as well - even without the lure of a breathing Gregory Lestrade - sex. Instead, he was going on a guided tour of St. Paul's - to see a staircase. But watching Gregory's animated face Mycroft was prepared to concede that there were worse fates. Besides, unless he had lost all his deductive abilities, there would be sex later. Gregory had looked gratifyingly pleased to see him, even if he was reluctant to allow himself to believe such enthusiasm would survive prolonged acquaintance with him.

"I should have asked," said Lestrade abruptly. "What would you like to do?"

Virtue personified, Mycroft remembered his promise not to lie. "Have sex," he said promptly.

Lestrade almost tripped over his own feet. "OK. The tour can wait."

"I should be able to arrange a private viewing, minus the tourists," said Mycroft, prepared to be generous in victory.

Lestrade gave him a beam of approval and tucked his arm into the crook of Mycroft's. 

With anyone else Mycroft would have suggested adjourning to a hotel but it seemed too impersonal for Gregory. "I would suggest we go to my home but I'm not sure if I've moved yet. I've rather lost track over the last few days."

"You're buying a new place?" asked Lestrade, as a sleek black car drew up beside them.

Mycroft gestured for him to get in first. "No. I rarely live anywhere for more than a few months. 'Home' is something of a misnomer. It's simply suitable accommodation that's convenient for Westminster and Whitehall - somewhere to sleep and sometimes to work. Nothing more."

"My place then." 

Lestrade resisted the urge to give Mycroft a hug. He'd like to meet the person - probably more than one for the hurt to have gone this deep - who had left Mycroft so damaged that he was this wary of planting emotional roots. No proper relationships - apart from Sherlock - not even a permanent home. And yet Mycroft was still here, allowing him to poke and pry and tease. Better still, looking pleased to see him - as well as eyeing him up. Though that was good too, of course.

"I'm glad you were able to make it," Lestrade said into the silence.

"As am I," said Mycroft after a moment. He moved slightly on the seat and the warmth of his thigh brushed Lestrade's and remained there.

Lestrade smiled at nothing in particular, feeling ridiculously happy, then turned and smiled at Mycroft, watching stern control ease into a goofy grin.

They were just under half a mile from his flat when Lestrade said: "Would you mind if we stopped off at Waitrose? The supermarket," he added, when Mycroft looked blank. "I need to buy food - and other supplies." He was discreet, mindful of the driver, a woman he hadn't seen before, who shared David's ability to blend into the background. 

Mycroft took his meaning immediately. "It's to be hoped we have better luck with them this time," he murmured.

"Don't remind me," groaned Lestrade. "Look, would you rather go on to the flat? I presume you have the spare key I gave David?"

"Yes. But I could come with you."

Lestrade patted a suited leg and became aware of just how gorgeous the fabric was. Not a bit like his only suit, which was reserved for days in court and funerals.

As they parked in the small car park at the rear of Waitrose, Lestrade asked, "Have you ever been in a supermarket?"

"Not that I recall."

"Eidetic memory letting you down?"

Mycroft gave him a narrow-eyed look before he caved. "No," he admitted grudgingly.

"Oh, this should be fun. What about your security?"

"They'll be around. If you don't object, one of them could go on to your flat."

"They're already there, aren't they?" recognised Lestrade.

"Er, yes. I would apologise but..."

Lestrade shrugged. "If it keeps you safe I can't complain. Out you come, it's time to improve your education about how the other half lives."

 

He was still smiling fondly at Mycroft's well-tailored back as they set the contents of the stacked trolley onto the conveyer at the checkout. God only knows what some of the stuff was but Mycroft had quite clearly been enjoying himself and while it had blown his budget, he had the money he was saving to start work on the kitchen.

"I still can't believe people would voluntarily eat cheese string," said Mycroft, "let alone the abomination of - "

"You said. The ways of our people are strange. No, you stand there and look decorative, I'll repack," said Lestrade, placing little faith in his companion's abilities.

"I'll pay," he protested, a short time later.

"I was intending to take us out for dinner. The least I can do is buy these few things," said Mycroft who, unlike the queen, not only carried money on his person but worrying amounts of it.

Lestrade estimated they had probably spent more than his month's budget on food. "'Few things'?"

Mycroft waved a dismissive hand and took control of the trolley as if he had been doing it all his life.

 

Leaving Mycroft in the flat to unpack the first three loads of shopping, Lestrade returned with the last lot and nodded to the security guard. He closed the front door behind her by the simple expedient of leaning back against it, handicapped by the three bulging carrier bags in each hand, the handles so twisted they threatened to cut off circulation. A fact he forgot completely when Mycroft swooped in, curved one hand around the back of his skull and began to kiss him.

Unable to do anything more than respond, because his hands were full, Lestrade eventually made a sound of protest.

Mycroft paused and nuzzled Lestrade's lower lip, before asking: "All right?"

"I will be when I can touch you. These bags have knotted themselves around my fingers."

There was a decidedly unerotic interval, which left shopping littered down the hall, Lestrade's coat, shirt and jeans in the living room and Mycroft's overcoat slumped over his shoes in the doorway of the bedroom.

"Haven't you heard of fucking zips?" growled Lestrade in frustration, as he fumbled with the fly buttons of Mycroft's suit.

"Anticipation is all."

"The hell it is. And if you've forgotten that I'll just have to remind you," said Lestrade, just before he yanked a pillow from the bed and sank to his knees.

 

Lestrade woke to the sound of rain hitting the windows, some time during Friday night blurring into Saturday. He was almost too warm, having forgotten to switch down the heating. Then, of course, there was the heat pouring from Mycroft, who was plastered against him, a proprietorial arm heavy over his hip, while even breathing dampened the back of his neck.

Who would have thought it, mused Lestrade contentedly, Mycroft Holmes, secret snuggler.

He was still smiling when he fell back to sleep.

Saturday, 23rd November

"Sleep well?" asked Lestrade, when he felt Mycroft stir behind him.

"Mmn. Why not just say you told me so and get it over with."

"Not while your hand's where it is."

"Very wise," mumbled Mycroft, snuffling the back of Lestrade's neck and giving him goosebumps. "And yes, I did. Sleep well, that is. This is a remarkably comfortable bed." He gave Gregory a friendly squeeze.

"I don't think I could," said Lestrade sadly.

Mycroft kissed the back of his neck. "Thank God for that. I thought I would have to be the first one to admit that."

Lestrade gave a soft huff of amusement as he slowly stretched. "I'm starving. You?"

"Ravenous," Mycroft admitted, rolling onto his back.

 

Sunday, 24th November

Sprawled across the ruin of the bed, Lestrade smiled up at the ceiling while he rubbed Mycroft's thigh with his knuckles.

"You were quite right," he said, after a drowsy few minutes, "it _is_ just like riding a bike."

"Mmn. I've never ridden a bike," Mycroft offered.

Lestrade gave a snort of amusement, then rolled onto his side and began kissing Mycroft just above his navel, having already discovered Mycroft's vulnerability to this line of attack.

"I don't have the energy," said Mycroft, muscles beginning to twitch.

"Uh huh." Lestrade licked under the curl of his navel, before slowly working his way down the crooked line of hair.

"Knew I was right," Lestrade said, a short time later.

"Why do I have the sinking feeling you'll be saying that a lot?" Mycroft's voice was rougher than usual.

"And you're still talking in complete sentences."

Without warning, Mycroft moved, to some purpose. "So are you," he pointed out, smiling into surprised brown eyes.

"You need a shave," noted Lestrade, inhaling sharply as stubble brushed his inner thigh.

Mycroft sucked the spot, making Lestrade squirm, agonized little noises escaping him as Mycroft began to browse his way down. Mouthing Lestrade's balls, he tongued behind them, teasing a whimper out of Lestrade before he began to speak in one word sentences.

 

It was only as he was dressing after his shower that Mycroft began to pay attention to his surroundings. Little seemed to have changed in the months he and Gregory had been apart, except for the blackout blinds. The bathroom was new, of course. And Gregory's mortage repayments were high, given his salary.

And a child was expensive.

He pulled on a pair of borrowed socks, then stared around. There wasn't a single baby picture on display.

"You're looking grim," said Lestrade as he emerged from the bathroom, towel-drying his hair.

"Was I," said Mycroft vaguely.

 

"I intended to take you out for dinner last night," said Mycroft as they enjoyed a breakfast late enough to qualify for lunch.

"This has been better," said Lestrade with conviction.

"We've hardly got out of bed."

"And your point is?"

"Fair comment," Mycroft allowed, before he wistfully eyed the last of Lestrade's bacon sandwich.

"Not a chance," Lestrade told him hard-heartedly, before he grinned.. "I'm having a terrible effect on you, aren't I?"

"Appalling," agreed Mycroft placidly. "May I make some more?"

"Mi casa and all that." Lestrade waved him off in the direction of the kitchen, then followed him a moment later. He hadn't expected Mycroft to be so completely comfortable in these less than luxurious surroundings.

"What do you usually do at the weekend?" asked Mycroft. He flipped the hissing bacon as if he had been doing it all his life.

"Work most of the time," said Lestrade, who was cutting bread. "You?"

"The same."

"It's pretty pathetic, isn't it. Worse, I quite enjoy it, most of the time. Brown sauce again?"

"That's right, kick a man when he's down," said Mycroft, who had developed a taste for it.

"No hobbies?" asked Lestrade.

Mycroft gave one of his faint, genuine smiles. "You're convinced I'm a secret knitter, aren't you. I don't believe I have any."

"You watch Basil Rathbone sword-fights."

"I hardly think that constitutes a hobby."

"What did you do as a kid?"

"Look after Sherlock. I started to teach myself Latin when I was nine," Mycroft added, after a moment's reflection. "Does that count?"

"Nope. It must be something totally useless."

"Oh, I think my looking after Sherlock qualifies."

Lestrade gave Mycroft a sharp look but had the sense not to comment. The accusations he had flung at Mycroft on Friday had obviously struck home. But he let it pass.

"Sport?"

Mycroft just looked at him.

"Silly question," Lestrade accepted. "So, no stamp collecting or train spotting. Not even air guitar?"

"Air - ? No. I played the piano. But lacked any real feel for it. Sherlock is the musician of the family." Mycroft flipped the bacon onto some paper towelling and carefully mopped up the excess fat.

Lestrade took advantage of Mycroft's preoccupation to study him. "Who said you lacked feeling?" he asked matter-of-factly.

"My teacher. He said that while I was technically proficient, I was an emotional void." 

Lestrade took a moment before he trusted himself to speak. "How old were you?"

"Fourteen. He was right, of course."

"You wanted to take it up professionally?"

"Good Lord, no. It just never occurred to me that I wouldn't be good enough."

"Average isn't necessarily a pejorative," said Lestrade, using the excuse of needing to stretch up to reach a fresh bottle of brown sauce to tuck an arm around Mycroft for balance.

"It was in our house," said Mycroft matter of factly, relaxing into the casual embrace.  
"So what, apart from stealing fruit, were your hobbies?"

"Have I got time to think of anything incredibly interesting?" asked Lestrade as they made themselves comfortable at the table.

"I gather the truth won't suffice."

"Like you I didn't have any. Unlike you, I wasn't doing anything useful instead."

Pinned by a disconcertingly shrewd blue gaze, it occurred to Lestrade that Mycroft would make a formidable interrogator.

"What?" he asked, trying not to fidget.

"It just occurred to me. I - for reasons which passeth understanding - promised to tell you the truth, no matter how inconvenient it might be. You made no such promise."

"Your fault for not thinking of it," pointed out Lestrade cheerfully. "But I was going to tell the truth anyway - unless it was something _really_ embarrassing."

Mycroft chewed thoughtfully on the last of his sandwich. "What really embarrassing admission are you trying to avoid?"

Lestrade rubbed his nose. "I'm basically a nerd."

"Would you prefer horror, or disbelief?"

"Shocked surprise," decided Lestrade. "If you must know, I tried to get into every tunnel in London."

"The Underground?"

"Hardly a challenge," said Lestrade with scorn. "No, London's riddled with tunnels. Including Whitehall."

"Stop fishing," said Mycroft, licking his index finger clean in the most distracting way.

"It was worth a try," said Lestrade philosophically.

"That's actually an interesting hobby - particularly for a child."

Lestrade shrugged, avoided Mycroft's gaze and changed the subject.

Mycroft sipped his cold tea and pretended not to have noticed.

"You don't have any photographs on display," he said, when Lestrade's bland comment about the weather had run its course.

"I'm rotten with a camera - and I don't have any family," pointed out Lestrade.

Mycroft hesitated and then said delicately. "Your child is well?"

"My what?"

"Child. Your wife wrote to you on the Island, telling you she was pregnant."

"Yeah, she did. But how the hell did you know that? Sherlock," Lestrade recognised, a moment later. "Privacy's a concept that he's never quite got to grips with."

"Er, yes."

"You didn't read Julia's letter?"

"No." Mycroft's tone made it clear he expected to be believed.

"Pity. If you had, you'd've known that she only wrote because she wanted to see if we could expedite the Degree Absolute, so she could remarry before she was the size of a house - not that she phrased it quite like that."

"The child isn't yours?"

"No way it could have been," said Lestrade easily, before his eyes narrowed. "Hang on, you thought the kid was mine?"

"That's all Sherlock told me. To be fair, I didn't give him the chance to finish reading your private correspondence. Proof that virtue isn't it's own reward."

Not for the first time, Lestrade wished he could read what was behind Mycroft's lack of expression - presuming something was. "Were you having a noble impulse when you gave me the boot on the Island?"

Mycroft sighed. "I know you made me promise to tell you the truth, but do you have to milk it quite so blatantly. I didn't give your well-being much thought. It was simple self-preservation. Had the child been yours, you would have taken full responsibility for it. You might even have attempted a reconciliation."

It hadn't occurred to Lestrade that Mycroft would keep his promise in this instance. He made a mental note never lightly to promise Mycroft anything. "Yeah, I would have, if it had been mine. As it was, I sent a cheque and card when it was born and that's the beginning and end of my involvement. The sun's out. Fancy a walk?"

 

They had just begun to prepare their evening meal when the front door bell rang. 

"Keep an eye on that saucepan, will you," said Lestrade, as he strolled off to answer it.

"Sherlock," he said without enthusiasm. He kept his foot behind the half-open door, and his body in the gap.

"Aren't you going to let me in?"

"Are you dying?"

"Would it matter?"

"Not to me," Lestrade assured him cheerfully. "What d'you want?"

"Work."

"Tomorrow. Today I'm having a private life."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Sex."

"That, too. Go away. I'll see you tomorrow."

"What don't you want me to know?"

"Anything about my private life. I'll put up with being insulted professionally but I'm damned if I want you prying into what little life I have left. And if you do, we stop working together. Clear?"

"I don't see what the fuss is about," said Sherlock in sulky capitulation. "If you don't want comments from your team, you'll need to keep your shirt collar fastened. You have the marks of stubble burn on your throat."

" I had noticed. But thanks. I'll call you tomorrow. There's always the homeless cases," Lestrade added.

Sherlock made a sound like a hissing kettle and stalked off, the open ends of his greatcoat streaming out behind him in the wind.

 

"You didn't want to invite him in?" said Mycroft mildly.

"Oh, ha bloody ha. No. It's not work he's worried about. It's the homeless cases. We're both frustrated but I'm the only one who'll admit as much. So many missing - or dead - and we're no nearer catching the bastard. It's just a game to him. Only people are dying and then being hacked up like so many butchered carcases of meat. In fact, it's likely the guy either is, or was, a butcher. We don't have nearly enough man-power to handle all the lines of inquiry."

"Ah," said Mycroft. "I could arrange for you to have more man-power but... " He stopped dead.

"You could? That would be fantastic."

"I could. But if I did that resources would have to be diverted from somewhere else. And it would set a precedent." There was nothing to be read from Mycroft's expression, except for the fact it was under control.

"With the Met.?"

"With us," said Mycroft baldly, avoiding Lestrade's gaze. "This is hardly likely to be the last time you don't have enough resources for a case." He looked up then, lines of tension obvious now.

"I never thought of that," said Lestrade blankly. "I was too busy feeling relieved. Bugger. I didn't mean to put you in that position. Well, that's that then."

"I shouldn't have mentioned it in the first place."

"Yes, you should. I was fishing - I suddenly remembered how we met and didn't stop to think it through to its logical conclusion. I'll just have to make do with your brain."

"That's at your complete disposal, if you think a fresh pair of eyes can help. But I would be grateful if you could refrain from telling Sherlock that I'm involved. He's very possessive of his work with you. And you, of course." Mycroft looked so much more relaxed that Lestrade realised just how concerned he had been. 

"Wrong brother," he said promptly.

"Oh, I'm possessive," said Mycroft, with a note in his soft voice which went straight to Lestrade's cock. "Just more civilized about it."

"Never learned to play well with others?"

"You'll have to let me know," murmured Mycroft. "Bed?"

"Dinner?"

"The pasta is already slightly burnt and you forgot to put the oven on for the salmon."

"You talked me into it," said Lestrade, still a little uneasy at how close they might have come to mucking this up - whatever 'this' was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks, as ever, to Beth H for her beta.
> 
> Happy Christmas to those who do, seasons what'sits to those who don't - and happy New Year to everyone.

CHAPTER TWO: DECEMBER, 2008

5th December

Sherlock was still giving Detective Sergeant Barrett a puzzled look as he trailed after Lestrade. 

"Explain. All I said to her was - "

Lestrade took a patient breath. "Sherlock, London's on high alert. Every Met officer who can walk has been called back on duty. DS Barrett was due to fly off on holiday yesterday and her husband's not best pleased at the change of plan. She's far from being the only one getting aggro at home. So you might want to cut everyone some slack while... I'm wasting my breath," he recognised, wishing he had appreciated his strife-free working life pre-Sherlock a bit more. "Put it another way. If you carry on the way you've been behaving today, it'll be your body we'll be searching for next. Only probably not too hard."

Sherlock gave a disdainful sniff, his gaze flicking around, never settling on anything for long, as if looking for something to hold his interest for more than a few seconds. The body of the dead man had been dismissed within momentss as unworthy of his attention, early indications suggesting he had died of natural causes, sleeping rough on one of the coldest nights of the year.

"Are you hoping I won't notice that you're keeping me away from the SOCOs," said Sherlock into the silence.

"I wasn't trying to be subtle about it. Irritable or unhappy people tend to make more mistakes. So leave 'em alone. Anyway, you've already decided there's nothing of interest about this body. Not that you spared it more than a glance." Lestrade wasn't sure what Sherlock was still doing here, given his lack of interest.

"Too mundane. You've been a lot happier since you've been having sex," Sherlock offered abruptly.

"Go figure," said Lestrade, but despite himself, he grinned.

"How long do you imagine it would take me to discover who you're - ?"

"No time at all," conceded Lestrade. "But if you pry into my private life we won't be working together any more. So, is telling me what I already know really worth it?" 

"You're not that interesting," sniffed Sherlock. 

"I know. Hang on a tick. 

"Wanduragala! Have you finished the door-to-door inquiries down this side yet?"

"Over half aren't in, sir."

"Then come back later. With Latimer. Soon as you get back, see the Information Officer to update her. Clear? Good."

"It's a lot of fuss for death by natural causes," said Sherlock.

"Probable natural causes, until the post mortem confirms it. Poor sod," Lestrade added.

"He's not the first, he won't be the last this winter," dismissed Sherlock.

Lestrade swallowed a sharp retort because there wasn't any point. Besides, Sherlock was right.

"It seems a waste of man-power with the current security alert in place. It's obviously the real thing this time because Mycroft was due in America yesterday," Sherlock said into the silence, when they were some distance from the Scene of Crime Officers, who were painstaking searching the area beyond the canvas shelter, which hid the body.

Lestrade stopped in his tracks to stare at him. "I'm sure Mycroft holds down an important job, but I don't understand what difference his presence makes," he said, despite his uncomfortable feeling that he understood only too well.

"'Important'? In effect, Mycroft is the British Government. He's far more than the traditional Intelligence Coordinator. All key security decisions are channelled through him, as well as a great many other, equally tedious, things. He's the most dangerous person either of us is ever likely to meet."

His gaze on the middle distance, Lestrade worried his bottom lip. In some respects it was hardly a surprise - except perhaps the degree of Mycroft's power. It certainly explained his security detail, and his air of authority, which was so complete that it never seemed to occur to Mycroft that he wouldn't be obeyed - and this was the off-duty version. But someone had to do the job and he'd rather it was someone he trusted to work for the good of the country, rather than bolstering his fortune.

Of course, he hadn't expected to find himself having sex with them...

He really wanted whatever there was between them to work, resigned to the fact there was nothing casual about this. It had been too late for that after their first meeting. He seemed to have no defence against the appeal of posh, controlling over-achievers in three-piece suits. Let alone those who didn't have relationships. But Mycroft had trusted him - first with Sherlock, then with the fact his job was in the secret service - or whatever his role was called. He was in no doubt that Mycroft fancied him and that Mycroft seemed to enjoy his company. So...not bad so far, all things considered.

"You don't need to concern yourself," Sherlock added, having been watching Lestrade's reaction to the news. "Mycroft would never hurt you. I wouldn't allow him to."

Lestrade smiled at Sherlock's assumption that he could control Mycroft. Though he was probably right. Sherlock was Mycroft's Achilles' Heel.

"That's not why I was looking worried. If what you say about Mycroft is true, you mustn't go around blowing his cover like this. I know you and he don't always get on, but telling me who he is could be really dangerous for him. Fatally so."

"Oh, please," said Sherlock with scorn. "I'm not one of your idiot team. I wouldn't tell anyone I didn't trust."

Lestrade was too preoccupied with Mycroft's safety to take in the compliment. "That's all well and good. How many people are we talking about?"

"You, even if some of your deductions are woefully inadequate. And Mycroft, when there's no alternative."

"That's it?"

"I'm rapidly changing my mind about you," said Sherlock, and for a second he sounded so like Mycroft that it made Lestrade pause.

"Do me a favour and keep it that way," Lestrade said urgently, uncaring in that moment whether he gave away the extent of his interest in Mycroft or not.

"You're being ridiculous. How many people do you trust? _Really_ trust?"

With an odd little lurch Lestrade realised it was only two - and they both had names ending in Holmes. One apparently ran the country, the other was an addict. And, if push came to shove, he'd just admitted, if only to himself, that he trusted them above anyone he had worked with during his twenty four years on the Force. 

"Point taken," he said, avoiding replying to Sherlock's question. "I have to get back to the Yard, to make sure the Incident Room's ticking over. Do you need a lift?"

But Sherlock had already ducked under the yellow scene-of-crime tape and was striding off down the alley, looking as if he should have an entourage of minions scuttling behind him.

6th December

When Sherlock didn't turn up to make everyone's life a misery, and failed to bombard him with voice mails and texts, Lestrade found time to call round at his flat after work.

Sherlock refused to give a urine sample and barred the entrance to his flat with his body.

Lestrade's heart sank as he absorbed the implication. "You know the rules. I'll be back in four days to try again. In the meantime, you're off all cases. Don't try and enter New Scotland Yard because your pass will be revoked. In God's name why?" he added tiredly. "You've been doing so well." But it explained Sherlock's lack of focus on the homeless man if he'd been teetering on the brink of using.

"I'm _bored_. If you don't have any work for me, go away." There was real venom on Sherlock's face as he slammed the door in Lestrade's face.

His hands punched deep in his pockets as he headed for the Barbican tube station, Lestrade tried to think of the least painful way of telling Mycroft that his brother was using again. 

10th December

Lestrade's smile faded when he saw it was only David standing on his front door step. "I suppose you want to case the joint?"

"Mr Holmes' car is five minutes away," David offered, before he disappeared to make a thorough security check.

"All clear," he said, on his return.

"I know," said Lestrade tartly. "Seriously, do you imagine for one moment that I would allow Mycroft anywhere near here if it wasn't?" While the high alert was still in place, a number of arrests, both in Britain and abroad, seemed to have reduced the risk of imminent terrorist attack in the UK. But he'd still spent the last few nights worrying just how many people knew who - what - Mycroft was.

David gave him a sharply assessing look but said only, "No, sir." He briefly touched the earpiece he was wearing.

"Then - never mind," sighed Lestrade.

"His car is pulling into the road. I thought you should have your own panic button. Just in case. Night, sir."

"Night," said Lestrade, stuffing the panic button into a pocket. He remained in the doorway, despite the frosty air, which sliced through the warmth of the central heating like a razor.

"I'm glad you could make it," he said, as Mycroft came down the stairs, umbrella in one hand and briefcase in the other.

"I apologise for the lateness of the hour. I was unavoidably detained," added Mycroft, as formal as if this was a business meeting.

Lestrade secured the front door and followed Mycroft into the living room. He lost all desire to joke when he recognised that, beneath his surface calm, Mycroft was like an over-wound spring. His eyes were bloodshot after too many hours wearing contact lenses in air-conditioning and by the way he was squinting slightly, he had either broken, or lost, his spectacles.

"I'm just glad you could make it. Len brought some suitcases round earlier, with clothing for every climate, a months' supply of contact lenses and a couple of spare pairs of spectacles. Right, that's the boring stuff out of the way. Now put down that bloody umbrella so I can snog the socks off you," Lestrade added, advancing on Mycroft with intent.

Mycroft exhaled softly, the lines of his mouth relaxing. "That's the best offer I've had in a week." He propped his umbrella against the side of the sofa and set his briefcase beside it.

Despite what he had claimed, Lestrade's kiss was relatively chaste. But he kept one hand on Mycroft's flank as he drew away a little.

"There's something I need to tell you."

Mycroft's expression smoothed out, only his eyes betraying his anxiety. "Bad news," he recognised, bracing himself.

"Sherlock started using again on the fifth or the sixth. I should have tested him today, but I was stuck in court and he isn't answering his phone. Though his text message of 'Sod off' suggests he's fine but not clean. If I go round there again he may force me into a position where I have to arrest him. I'm sorry," Lestrade added, as he watched Mycroft absorb the hit.

"It's hardly your fault," Mycroft said tiredly. "Thank you for telling me. What is he using?"

"Coke."

"I'm in your debt. This is the second time you've been better informed about Sherlock's well-being than I have."

"Addicts are very good at hiding what they're up to. And you've been otherwise occupied, saving the country," Lestrade pointed out.

Seeming not to notice as he was steered into the bedroom, Mycroft gave him a sharply assessing look.

"Sherlock claimed you're the British Government," Lestrade added. "Only this time I believe him."

There was a short silence as Mycroft deposited his watch chain and cuff links on top of the chest of drawers. "He must trust you," he said mildly.

The lack of denial stopped Lestrade dead as he recognised that Sherlock wasn't the only one doing so - and that Mycroft wanted him to know that.

"So he said. Next thing I knew he was back on smack."

"If I've learned nothing else, I know you can't blame yourself for the decisions Sherlock makes," Mycroft said, as he straightened from where he had unfastened his shoes and removed his ankle holster. 

"So you don't worry about him?"

Mycroft's face had a sudden look of exhaustion, as if a secret burden he always carried was pressing down on him more than usual. As his defences slipped, he looked both younger and very vulnerable. "I worry about him constantly," he said quietly, and with so little emphasis that, unless you knew him, you would have no idea he was telling the unvarnished truth.

"It was a stupid question on my part," said Lestrade.

"No, it wasn't. I've been neglecting him these last few months. Perhaps he'll agree to try rehab one more time." The despondent droop to Mycroft's mouth suggested he didn't hold up much hope.

Lestrade fished in a pocket. "That reminds me. I contacted someone - ex-Drugs Squad. He gave me the name of a couple of clinics he recommends when friends' kids have a problem. They have a good reputation and a pretty good success rate."

"Thank you," said Mycroft, taking the piece of paper from him. This time he was paying attention when he took in the finer points of Lestrade's appearance. 

"You got a confession in the Valerie Parks case," he said with certainty.

"I did. We've got the forensics to back it up, too. How are things with you? Generally speaking, of course." Lestrade eased the red braces from Mycroft's shoulders.

"My day ended by having a meeting about holding a meeting," said Mycroft, his wry expression inviting Lestrade to share the joke.

"You mean even you get them? Where did you bury the body?"

The tension in his shoulders already easing, Mycroft gave a faint smile as he removed his tie. "If only I had the power," he murmured.

"You don't?"

"Sadly not. At least not on UK soil. A pragmatic rather than a moral stance," added Mycroft, direct because directness was called for.

Lestrade took a moment to absorb that, aware that he was under unblinking surveillance while Mycroft waited for his reaction. "Have you eaten?" he asked, because that pragmatic need was more real to him than the choices Mycroft had to make - and there were some issues he'd rather not think about if he didn't have to.

A little more tension seeped away from Mycroft's face. "I'm not hungry. As I recall, you made a promise which you have yet to keep." His hands settled on Lestrade's flanks.

"And that would be?"

"It included the words 'snogging' and 'socks'."

"Oh, that," said Lestrade airily. "I hadn't forgotten. I just wanted to hear you say the word 'snogging.'"

Before Mycroft could reply there was a beeping sound.

Lestrade looked down. "I suppose it's too much to hope that it's passion making your trouser pocket vibrate?"

"Sadly yes," sighed Mycroft. "I must take this call."

"I know. It's fine."

While Mycroft hardly moved, all semblance of ease had vanished, laying bare a sharp-edged focus of dazzling intensity as he took the call.

Lestrade quickly left the room.

He was asleep on the sofa by the time Mycroft emerged and stirred only when Mycroft woke him. Mycroft was wearing a grey pin-stripe three-piece, with the crisp look of a man freshly showered and shaved. He even looked as if he had slept.

"I must go. It's nearly six o'clock. I didn't want to leave without waking you - you need to secure the front door from the inside when my security detail aren't outside."

Lestrade patted him. "That's not the only reason you should wake me. Have you eaten?"

"I made myself some tea. Yours is steeping," said Mycroft.

"Call when you can. Keep safe," Lestrade added, as he padded after Mycroft.

Mycroft paused, an expression on his face Lestrade wasn't sure how to interpret, before he was being kissed .

"You too," said Mycroft, with a grimness Lestrade understood when he heard the early morning news of the murder of a young constable in Leeds.

13th December

Busy checking the Action Book to ensure he kept up-to-date with all the strands of the investigation, Lestrade fumbled to find his phone and answered it without checking Caller ID.

"Is this a convenient time?" asked Mycroft.

Lestrade smiled at the opposite wall. "This is an excellent time."

"Sherlock agreed to go into rehab and has been at the clinic for two days. He was concerned that he might not have a - "

"Tell him there's a place waiting for him here when he gets back. No one but me knows why he's away. His position as consultant isn't 'official', so there's no difficulty there. Do you want me to text him? Is he allowed a phone?"

"No, but the clinic has agreed that Sherlock's chances of success might improve with one."

"Then I'll text him. Is there any chance you're free this evening?" added Lestrade, because he could only imagine how Mycroft was feeling with Sherlock back to square one.

"As it happens, I'm free at the moment. May I take you out to dinner?"

Lestrade glanced at his watch. "I hadn't realised it was almost seven. I'm all yours - give or take fifteen minutes."

"My car will be in Monck Street."

 

The first thing Lestrade noticed was Mycroft's relaxed expression.

"Evening. Can David hear us?" Lestrade asked, as he slid in the back, close enough to enjoy the warmth of Mycroft's body.

"No, we're quite private. Is something wrong?"

"Far from it. I meant to tell you the other day. I got my test results back. All clear."

"That's excellent news. Were you worried?"

"Not until I took the test," Lestrade admitted ruefully.

"In my experience the worry starts to niggle every time I take the test."

"Something to look forward to then. So, can David see into the back?"

"Well, I trust he's keeping his attention on the road. There's a privacy shield I can activate."

"Cool. Presumably not installed just so you can snog someone."

"Presumably not. Of course, the downside is that David will know why the shield's been activated," said Mycroft, enjoying the range of expressions which crossed Gregory's face.

"Ah, I never thought of that. Where are we going?" Lestrade added, when he noticed the car was already approaching Hyde Park Corner, thanks to the unexpectedly light traffic.

"Mayfair."

Lestrade's smile slipped a little as he peered down at himself. While he'd been in court this morning, and so was wearing his suit, his shirt was from M&S, he'd left his tie in the drawer at work and his shoes were... He surreptitiously rubbed one on the back of his trouser leg. 

Mycroft was a wonder of good tailoring in his pond-scum three-piece suit (which was growing on Lestrade), with a brown spotted handkerchief in his breast pocket; the subtleties in the soft tones of his tie were beyond Lestrade to try and describe. He must have shaved recently and he smelled fantastic.

He refocused to see Mycroft eyeing him with exaggerated concern.

"I had an itch," said Lestrade with dignity, feeling like the poor relation. He wiped a hand over his beard shadow. He should have stopped to shave, at least.

Mycroft's mouth twitched but he said only, "I'm glad you were able to get off work early. I wanted someone to celebrate with. Sherlock called me again. The clinic 'isn't terrible' and the staff obviously have his measure because they've agreed that group therapy would be a waste of time."

"Him ringing you like this. That's a good sign, isn't it?"

"It's unheard of," said Mycroft frankly. "I'm trying not to be too optimistic because it's early days but..."

Lestrade patted Mycroft's knee. "A little optimism can't hurt."

He glanced out the window in time to see the car stop outside an redbrick building, with the sign _Le Gavroche_ over the elegant portico. 

"Mycroft," he said helplessly. "I don't own a suit for anywhere this grand."

"It might be a two star Michelin restaurant but the atmosphere is one of comfort and welcome, not pretension," said Mycroft, who, for once, missed the sub-text.

Lestrade had little option but to follow him out of the car. "I thought we were going to have a simple meal and go back to my place." 

This time Mycroft caught the unease in his voice. "You don't like French cuisine?"

"I think it's more a case of they won't want me in there. I'm not even wearing a tie."

"You never do," Mycroft pointed out.

"And yet you still brought me here."

"The dress code is smart casual, you'll fit in perfectly. The food is superb, the staff are excellent. You'd rather go somewhere else," Mycroft recognised belatedly. "I should have checked with you before making the booking. We'll leave."

Lestrade stayed where he was. "Why did you want to bring me here?"

"All the usual reasons. You've cooked for me so many times and I lack the skill to return the favour. I hoped you would enjoy a relaxing evening. Instead, all I've succeeded in doing is make you uncomfortable," said Mycroft bleakly.

Conscious that he had eradicated Mycroft's air of relaxed anticipation, Lestrade pinned a smile in place. "Hey, you managed at Waitrose, I can cope with _Le Gavroche_."

Mycroft looked suddenly tired. "You shouldn't have to 'cope'. This was obviously a terrible idea."

Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck and resisted the urge to fidget. "It was a great idea. Look, if I walk round the corner and come back, can we forget my being a prat? You can tell me we're celebrating at _Le Gavroche_ , I'll say 'fantastic' because it will be, and we'll have a wonderful evening. I'm feeling a bit out of my depth, that's all. But you won't care if I use the wrong fork, so why should I? Hang on, I'll see if David will lend me his tie."

"You adorn anything you wear. And if I wasn't so inept I would never have made you feel otherwise," said Mycroft bitterly.

"That's quite a compliment," said Lestrade, after a moment, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "You always look so fantastic that I thought you'd want me to - "

"Best leave the thinking to me," said Mycroft acidly, before he grimaced.

But Lestrade just laughed and tucked an arm in his. "You could have a point. We've all got our insecurities, you know. Though I was hoping to keep mine tucked out of sight for a while yet."

Before Mycroft could reply, his phone rang. "Saved by the bell. I must take this."

Lestrade nodded and moved away to give Mycroft privacy.

"You'll be relieved to hear the evening's over," said Mycroft, his voice flat, his expression unrevealing as he tucked away the phone.

His shoulders hunched, Lestrade stuck his hands in the pockets of his raincoat and took a deep breath. "Have I totally buggered things between us?" he asked baldly.

Mycroft's set expression relaxed. "You'll need to try far harder to do that. Although that isn't necessarily a challenge."

Lestrade's smile lit up his face. "Duly noted. Ring me when you get a chance."

"Rely on it. David's called a taxi for you."

"Cancel it. I'll walk for a bit," said Lestrade easily.

"Or you could take up our table," said Mycroft, as he got into the car.

"Bastard," murmured Lestrade, just before he leant in and kissed Mycroft once, hard on the mouth, then retreated to wave off the car as it headed for the Park Lane end of Upper Brook Street.

 

Lestrade was still wandering through Mayfair when he became aware that he was attracting attention from a group of Japanese tourists. He looked around to see a familiar black car kerb crawling in his wake. As it stopped, he quickly got in.

"The meeting was cancelled," said Mycroft, a certain note in his voice suggesting he may have had some part to play in that. "May I offer you a lift?"

"I was hoping you'd spring for that dinner you promised me. I'm starving. Why were those tourists taking my picture?"

"Perhaps they mistook you for an aging rock star," said Mycroft, straight-faced.

"That would make you my sleazy manager," Lestrade pointed out, checking that his zip was fastened.

"I can live with that. Is there any particular reason why you're studying your groin? Not that I don't enjoy looking at it myself." 

 

By the time Lestrade had stopped kissing him, the car had drawn up outside _Le Gavroche_ again and Mycroft was in no state to be seen in public.

"You did that deliberately," said Mycroft, fumbling as he tried to fasten his overcoat. "No, I'll wait in here for a moment more."

Lestrade looked ridiculously pleased with himself.

A short time later a red light began to flash at the base of the glass which separated them from David.

"Yes?" said Mycroft, relaxing the privacy shield.

"At the risk of sounding like a refugee from a pantomime, behind you, sir."

Mycroft took one look and groaned. "Oh, fuck. And the evening has been going so well." 

 

"Problem?" asked Lestrade, as he watched a gleaming Bentley draw up behind them. 

"Not in the way you mean. Still, that's seen to my troublesome erection. Right, no point putting off the inevitable," sighed Mycroft, as the uniformed chauffeur went to the rear of the Bentley. 

"If you'd rather leave..." he said to Lestrade.

Lestrade got out beside him. "Do you want me to?"

"No."

"Then I'm staying."

"Don't say I didn't give you the chance to escape," Mycroft murmured, just before he stepped forward to greet a short, stocky woman in her sixties, whose white hair was pulled severely off her face. 

"Mycroft, I swear you're taller than when I saw you last. What good fortune to run into you. I've been hoping to have a word."

"Ma'am." Mycroft bent to salute her on each sallow cheek.

"Try not to look too pleased to see me," she said tartly, as she patted his arm. "And this is?" She gestured to Lestrade, who, finding himself pinned by a disconcertingly shrewd gaze, resisted the urge to hide behind Mycroft. While her voice wasn't particularly loud, it was penetrating.

"Gregory Lestrade. Gregory, may I present Edith Carson."

"Pleased to meet you," lied Lestrade, extending his hand, and only then remembering the smear of ink from his felt tip pen that he'd been unable to remove. 

"That won't last," murmured Mycroft, which earned him a look of disbelief from Lestrade and a crack of laughter from Edith. 

Mycroft propped himself against his car, his hands deep in his trouser pockets, his expression a mixture of apprehension and amusement. He had wondered how his performance would be rated by his predecessor but hadn't anticipated finding out in public. Gregory obviously had excellent survival instincts because he was looking distinctly wary.

"You're dining at _Le Gavroche_?" Edith Carson asked Lestrade.

"That remains to be seen," said Mycroft.

"Would you have any objection to my joining you?" she asked Lestrade, who froze like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a speeding car.

"Don't sulk, Mycroft," Edith Carson added, without looking round. 

"I was merely musing on the fact that you're having more success in wining and dining Gregory than I've enjoyed to date." 

"I haven't said yes to either of you yet," Lestrade pointed out. 

"Well said, Detective Inspector."

"How - ?" Lestrade glanced at Mycroft, who shrugged.

"My husband and I have a house that overlooks your crime scene of earlier this week - the homeless man in the alleyway. While your people were busy at the scene, Michael was at the window with his binoculars. He and Wally Briggs play chess and use the binoculars to check each other's boards because both of them cheat, given half the chance. They can't meet up because Michael is allergic to cat hair and Wally's always covered in it."

"Why don't they play on the computer?" asked Mycroft.

"Because Michael's a Luddite. Beside which, his hands aren't agile enough yet. The point is, Michael recognised Sherlock with the Detective Inspector. My husband is deaf," she added to Lestrade.

It took him a few moments to process. "I don't understand what - Oh. He can lip read."

"Quite. Can't you teach that brother of yours a modicum of discretion," Edith added to Mycroft. 

"I'm content to trust Sherlock with my life," said Mycroft placidly. 

"Who are you, Mrs Carson?" Lestrade demanded. 

"Mycroft's predecessor," she said without hesitation. 

"At the Department of Transport?" 

"There too," Mycroft told him wryly, as he waited for the sword to fall. Edith had never approved of Sherlock. 

"I'd like a word with you, Mycroft," she said ominously. 

"Gregory and I are on a date. Our first," he added pointedly. 

"Oh, I think not. And you'll have other opportunities." 

"Receding by the second," sighed Mycroft. He felt slightly cheered by the expression on Gregory's face. He couldn't remember stirring protective instincts in anyone before. Not that he needed protecting, but it was the thought that counted. 

As it began to drizzle, Lestrade said: "Right, before we get soaked, let's go inside. I hadn't envisaged a threesome this evening, but I'm sure I'll adapt." 

Edith tucked her arm in his. "I have every confidence you will. Now, about that case of yours..." 

Mycroft followed resignedly behind them, having been slow to appreciate that Edith's real purpose was to vet Gregory herself. If he was really, really lucky Gregory might not realise that - although the way his luck was running this evening... 

Lestrade spent most of the meal evading questions from Edith Carson, before quizzing her on what her husband might have seen prior to the discovery of the body.

"I'd like to come round tomorrow morning to see the view for myself - and to talk to him and his chess partner, who presumably has a similar view from the other side of the alley. Though we made house-to-house inquiries... "

Edith waved that aside. "Blame our over-zealous security."

"For Mr Briggs as well?" 

"Yes." 

"Wonderful," sighed Lestrade, before he brightened. "Then there will be security footage of the entire area." 

"I'll ensure it's made available to you. I'll tell Michael to expect you at ten thirty. No one else will be given admittance," she added, in a tone that brooked no disagreement. 

Lestrade didn't waste his breath arguing with her. Anyone who believed everyone was equal under the law hadn't been paying attention. Besides, he wanted to see those tapes. The homeless man hadn't died of natural causes, and in all probability, given his pedicure, he hadn't been homeless, although they had yet to identify him. 

"I don't sign. Should I bring - ?" 

"No need. Michael's a decent lip-reader, and if that fails you can always type out any questions, but sign is impossible for him at present. He only lost his hearing a year ago," she added matter of factly. 

"I don't see how Michael could possibly have lip-read through binoculars what Sherlock was saying to Gregory over that distance," said Mycroft critically. 

"He got enough to know there might be a problem," Edith told him sharply. "I'm right in believing Sherlock blew your cover to Detective Inspector Lestrade?" 

"Greg. And I already had an inkling," said Lestrade. 

"Then you must have been exceedingly careless," she said to Mycroft.

"Or I could be extremely bright," said Lestrade, in another attempt to divert her attention from Mycroft.

"I don't think so," she dismissed.

Lestrade's mouth twitched appreciatively. "Thanks." 

"Sherlock's a loose cannon," she said to Mycroft.

"Perhaps he is," cut in Lestrade, "but he would never do anything to put Mycroft at risk." 

"And yet he told you."

"Perhaps he's gullible," said Lestrade, his expression hardening.

Edith glanced from Lestrade to the unusually silent Mycroft, who looked as if he had just received a pleasant surprise. 

"Well, it's getting late and my chauffeur turns into a pumpkin at midnight. Mycroft." 

He rose to his feet.

"No, stay where you are. Half the diners here work for one of the security services or another." 

Lestrade resisted the temptation to check out the other tables. 

"No, you can't have David or Balasha," said Mycroft immediately. 

"I wouldn't dream of trying to poach them." 

"You won't get the chance," Mycroft told her pleasantly. 

"It was worth a try," Edith said philosophically. "Jasper's a nice lad, but dull." 

"Most people are, when compared to you," pointed out Mycroft. "Is there something you want to tell me?" 

"Nothing you don't already know. No one ever pretended the job was easy. Are you sorry you took it on?" 

"There have been days," Mycroft allowed sombrely. 

"I can imagine. For what it's worth, you're not doing badly. Not badly at all. 

"Detective Inspector, it's been a pleasure," Edith added briskly, before she headed for the exit, in her sensible shoes and ancient tweed suit. Two diners headed after her, wearing resigned expressions. 

Lestrade ordered two brandies but sat cradling his glass between his hands rather than drinking it. 

"Well, you're obviously doing something right," he said at last. 

"So it would seem," Mycroft said, taking a sip of brandy. "This wasn't the evening I intended." 

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "You're not into threesomes then?" 

"Behave." said Mycroft, amused. "But as it happens, no I'm not." The tables were widely-spaced and theirs was in the corner of the room, which afforded them extra privacy, but he still turned on his seat, so no one would be able to lip-read. "The reason for the late start of the interview and the fact Edith wants you there alone is that her husband was involved in a horrendous car crash earlier this year. There was a fire. He's lucky to be alive. He's only just come out of hospital. Edith's always been very protective of him - despite the fact he's - he was - a Rear Admiral." 

"I wasn't planning on beating him up," said Lestrade mildly. "But thanks for the heads up. What about Wally Briggs? She indicated he's one of your lot." 

"Not mine, thank God. He's eighty nine and while physically frail he has a mind like a nut-cracker." 

"But probably not a mass murderer," said Lestrade flippantly. 

"Well, not in this century." 

It was a moment before Lestrade realised Mycroft was serious. He took a reviving swallow of brandy. "Wonderful. I'm surrounded by bloody spooks, and it isn't even Hallowe'en. Hang about, she could have called you at any time. She wants you to investigate my case, doesn't she?" 

"Perhaps it's only a coincidence that the body lay between the homes of two - " 

>"So you _are_ investigating this." 

"I knew nothing about it until ten minutes ago," Mycroft reminded him, his voice mild. "But yes, we will be." One eyebrow raised, his head slightly tilted, he waited for Lestrade's response. 

After draining his glass of brandy, Lestrade set it down with an audible thump. Then he reached across and helped himself to the glass sitting between Mycroft's motionless hands, coughing slightly as he drained that, too. With a glare that dared Mycroft to comment, he ordered two more glasses, draining one immediately. The fourth he sat turning between his hands, frowning. 

"She's a meddling old biddy, isn't she." he said, after several minutes of silence. "The only reason I know about any of this is because she made sure I did. What's she got against me? I knew I should've borrowed David's tie," Lestrade added flippantly. His hand moved slightly, so that it brushed Mycroft's. 

"His taste in ties is even worse than yours," said Mycroft, his face beginning to relax. "Edith's always been inclined to meddle. In her defence, you're the only person... No one has ever had an inkling what I really do, let alone been told outright. While, as you know, you were vetted, Edith..." He sighed and parted his hands, momentarily distracting Lestrade. "I'm sorry. I hoped you wouldn't realise what she was doing." 

"I bet you did," said Lestrade, who looked as if he was beginning to feel the effects of the brandy. "I'm not giving up the case. No doubt I'll be told to hand over copies of everything we have in the morning?" 

"It seems likely," Mycroft agreed. "Was it natural causes?" 

"No. Though the pathologist couldn't give a definitive answer as to what had killed him. The pedicure, not to mention the quality of the clothing suggests he wasn't homeless either. We've no ID though." 

"Sherlock didn't spot anything?" 

"Sherlock was too busy having a hissy fit to give the guy more than a cursory look. And I was too busy being smug at spotting what he hadn't to wonder why." Lestrade pushed away the last glass of brandy. "I don't even like the stuff much." 

Mycroft maintained a tactful silence. 

"Donovan will have to take any calls tonight. I'm close to being pissed. Must be getting old," sighed Lestrade. 

"Or just not accustomed to drinking three very large brandies in quick succession." 

"I think I should go home," Lestrade said apologetically. 

The formalities were discreetly dealt with, the staff thanked and they were back out in the frosty December night, their breath hanging in white plumes. 

"Whoa," murmured Lestrade, as the cold air hit him. "Sorry about this." 

"It's fine," said Mycroft as the car glided up to the kerb. He steered Lestrade into the back of the car and immediately hit the privacy button. 

"What?" he asked, finding himself under an unwavering survey. 

"You're not nearly as scary as your predecessor," said Lestrade solemnly. 

"Give me time," said Mycroft grimly, wondering if he should call a halt to this relationship now. If he had to relieve Gregory of this case - or any other... 

"Mmn. Where're you taking me?" 

"Home. You're going to need a clear head for the morning." 

"Hey, a spook and a Rear-Admiral. How hard can it be?" 

Mycroft saw Lestrade down the steps to his basement flat, the door already open thanks to David's security check. "Would you rather I left?" 

"Not likely. I'm going to need to borrow a tie before I go to see the Carsons. Mine's at the office. 'M going to bed. Coming?" 

"In a few moments. There are a couple of calls I must make first." 

"About your investigation?" 

"Amongst other things. 

"That brandy was lethal. If I have a hangover tomorrow, I'm blaming you." 

"That only seems fair," agreed Mycroft, escorting him into the bedroom. 

Lestrade stopped so fast Mycroft almost tripped over him. "It does? Why?"

"I'm presuming the evening wasn't the most enjoyable you've ever spent." 

"Not even close. But that was hardly your fault." Lestrade fumbled to remove his jacket, until Mycroft took charge. "Mrs Carson's not a bit like M, is she?" 

"M what?" asked Mycroft, as Lestrade wobbled on one foot as he removed his trousers. 

"Do concentrate. Bond's boss, M. Played by Judi Dench. She and Bond have this really sexy vibe going on." 

"Stop right there, begged Mycroft, looking queasy. "I can promise you there is absolutely no 'vibe' between Edith and myself." 

"Ah, you say that now," grinned Lestrade, before he sauntered off to the bathroom. 

The enveloping darkness of the bedroom always took Mycroft by surprise but he managed not to trip over anything before sliding into bed. 

"I'm glad you're here," mumbled Lestrade, who was obviously only half-awake as he snuggled up close. 

Mycroft released the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding, then flinched as cold feet warmed themselves on his calves. "Go to sleep," he said tolerantly, as he adjusted accommodate the bonier of Gregory's contours. He fell asleep amidst a cloud of brandy fumes, feeling more content than he would have believed possible after a date which hadn't gone anywhere close to plan. 

Of course, life being what it was, an elbow in the ribs startled Mycroft awake a couple of hours later, but Gregory never really woke up, so Mycroft just readjusted their respective positions and hoped for the best as he slid back into sleep. 

22nd December 

"Good afternoon, Gregory. Is this a good time?" 

"It's great, in that I've just got back after a boring meeting. Are you back?" 

"Was I away?" enquired Mycroft blandly. 

"Stupid question on my part. But are you?" 

Mycroft sighed. "Yes. Do you have any plans?" 

"Well, I've got to take the team out for a Christmas booze-up tonight - during which I will _not_ be drinking." 

"I meant for Christmas." 

"Oh. I'll be working. Those with families get first dibs on leave. You?" 

"The Christmas period is often quiet, offering the opportunity to take a holiday."

"So you're going away," said Lestrade with forced enthusiasm. 

"I usually do. Are you likely to be busy?" 

"Christmas Day should be quiet, after that, it's anyone's guess. It's a bad time for domestic violence, add too much alcohol to the mix and it often gets ugly. Aggravated burglaries are up, too. But the murders aren't usually complicated, just a bloody waste of lives and time. No matter how quiet it is, I won't be able to leave London." 

"A pity." 

"Where will you go?" It suddenly occurred to Lestrade that Mycroft was unlikely to go alone - they'd never discussed exclusivity. They didn't discuss their relationship, or even admit there might be one - and for the life of him, Lestrade couldn't remember when the talking stage was supposed to happen. Julia had done all the talking. 

"I thought West Kensington might be pleasant at this time of the year," said Mycroft, jettisoning his holiday without a qualm. 

Lestrade beamed at the limp ham sandwich that was drooping from one hand. "An excellent choice. I'm told the natives are very friendly." 

"I'm relying on it." 

26th/27th December 

Lestrade woke slowly and gave a comfortable stretch, the sound of rain thumping against the window increasing his cosy sense of well-being. Enveloped by warmth and the faint drift of what he now knew to be sandalwood, vetiver, bergamot and oud, he could feel Mycroft plastered down his length. While he couldn't actually see the details, he knew the arm banding his rib cage was pale, speckled with freckles and covered with auburn fuzz. The elegant hand was relaxed and heavy just below his belly button. 

He gave a contented sigh, happy in a way he couldn't remember being for a very long time. It had been years since he'd had the pleasure of waking up enfolded by someone who really wanted to be with him. 

"All right?" asked a sleep-thickened voice. 

"Perfect," said Lestrade, patting Mycroft's hand. "Go back to sleep. Or not," he added, grinning into the darkness. 

"Not, I think," murmured Mycroft, who was sounding more wakeful by the second. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft plans a surprise...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heartfelt thanks to Beth H for her beta.

CHAPTER THREE: December 2008-January 2009

 

Holidays were usually a tedious necessity, during which Mycroft caught up on sleep and recharged his mental batteries. However, this one was proving to be unexpectedly pleasant - even leaving aside the obvious advantage of Gregory Lestrade in his life. 

It helped that Gregory seemed to have as little enthusiasm for the seasonal festivities as he did; the flat was an oasis of sanity in a sea of faux jollity, tasteless decorations and plastic Christmas trees - with the lack of banal songs a decided plus. Because Gregory had displayed no awareness that this was a season in which gifts were exchanged, Mycroft made no mention of those he had purchased - or rather, those he had caused to be purchased, just in case. Besides, after several days dipping into Gregory's library on his return to the flat, he was gaining a far clearer idea of what would give Gregory the most pleasure. Basic furniture and household items aside, and taking his divorce into consideration, apart from some compact discs and a selection of books, he had no personal possessions - either they didn't interest him, or there was some deep-rooted cause behind the lack of 'things'. Mycroft suspected the latter but had promised himself that when it came to learning about Gregory, he would not use the power at his disposal. Or not more than he had done already. He wanted Gregory to choose to allow him into his life.

Of course, it was impossible not to make certain assumptions. He presumed Christmas must have been a difficult time for Gregory at some point because, religious affiliations aside, it wasn't usual to ignore it so completely. Christmas in the household of his youth had always been a difficult time, the possibility of parental discord hovering like a toxic cloud as his parents reunited for the festive season. The house had always been lavishly festooned with decorations and much made of the arrival of Father Christmas. Mycroft couldn't remember ever being gullible enough to believe in him; Sherlock certainly hadn't, vocal in his scepticism as soon as he could speak. Although when he had realised it had upset their nanny, Martha Fisher, he had stopped calling her a simpleton for believing in such nonsense. Not that it mattered, she had always preferred Sherlock; perhaps because Sherlock always pretended to be surprised by her sentimental and unsuitable gifts, though more likely because, at seven, Mycroft had thought himself too old for a 'nanny'.

There had been no communication from Sherlock over the festive period. Not that he had expected one. They never indulged in the mawkish sentimentality so prevalent at this time of year; that was even less likely with Sherlock still at the clinic. But he had chosen to stay there, armed with a small library of books on forensic medicine, evidence gathering and crime scene procedure. The knowledge that he was safe aided Mycroft's ability to relax.

While Lestrade's workload had been light over the Christmas period, that changed just before dawn on the 27th December, when he was called out to a particularly unpleasant murder - an abusive husband had battered his pregnant wife to death, then tried to dispose of her body in a fire. The case had drawn a great deal of publicity, increasing the pressure on Lestrade, who hadn't been home for three days.

With appointments made to visit his tailor, shirt-maker and shoe-maker the following week, Mycroft got his medical and trip to the dentist over with, then allowed himself a day at the British Library.

It didn't occur to him to visit the Diogenes Club; Gregory's flat offered all the tranquility he required, and it already felt more of a home than any of his own residences ever had. But without Gregory beside him, Mycroft found sleep hard to come by - ironic given his resistance to the idea of sharing a bed. Not that sleeping with Gregory was unalloyed joy; he had a nightly ritual of beating the pillows into submission and, if allowed to get away with it, tended to hog the bedcovers. Plus, he was a restless sleeper, although to date he had displayed none of the nightmares which had so disturbed his sleep on the island. But staring up at the bedroom ceiling on the third night, Mycroft conceded that it was becoming increasingly difficult to resist the temptation to ring him, as doubts set in regarding whether he might have over-stayed his welcome.

oOo

As Lestrade emerged from under the security canopy, which guarded every entrance to New Scotland Yard, a familiar black car pulled up, the rear inside window sliding down as he drew near.

"Good evening," said Mycroft.

Lestrade got in beside him, nodding to Fatima, who was in the driving seat.

"Do you always have your security with you?" he asked.

"Did I not mention that?"

"Oddly enough, no. So, a threesome. Excellent." Lestrade rubbed his hands together. 

"I saw the news conference. Well done."

Lestrade snorted. "For what? He could still try to plead diminished capacity as a defence. Not that I think it'll fly but you can never tell with the courts. Where was I?" The snub was pointed.

"Busy trying to embarrass Fatima, which I can assure you is a lost cause." Mycroft activated the privacy button. "I know we arranged to dine out but what would you really prefer to do?"

Lestrade slumped where he sat, rubbing a hand over his face, his exhaustion abruptly obvious; stubble rasped. "I overplayed?"

"A tad."

"Yeah. Sorry. I'm probably not going to be fantastic company."

"Would you prefer it if we drove you home and I left?"

Lestrade exhaled softly. "I'd rather you drove me home and stayed," he said frankly.

"An excellent choice," murmured Mycroft. "Relax. Doze, if you can. Traffic is heavy tonight and the journey is likely to take longer than usual."

"You can't control the lights?" joked Lestrade, trying to think of anything but the case.

"I prefer to save that for times of real need."

Lestrade absorbed that in silence while making a mental note to be careful what he joked about. "This can't have been much of a holiday for you so far. Not that I'm exciting company at the best of times."

"I have all the excitement I need in my job," Mycroft pointed out. He only appreciated the two-edged possibilities of that response when Lestrade gave a soft huff of amusement.

"It's fine," said Lestrade, on hand on Mycroft's thigh. 

"Yes," said Mycroft, studying him, "it is. I spent a most enjoyable afternoon in the British Library. I believe some of the maps of London housed there would interest you." His voice soft and kept to a monotonous level as he talked about what he had seen, he eased closer and tucked an arm around Lestrade, who fell asleep before they reached Hyde Park Corner.

 

Still only half-awake as he was steered into the flat, Lestrade flexed his aching neck and shoulders.

"Come and get warm. There's soup and as it's part of a batch you made I can vouch for its excellence," said Mycroft.

Lestrade nodded tiredly and patted Mycroft's midriff. "First I'm going to have a soak in the bath. I feel as if I've been living in these clothes. Come to think of it, I have." He tweaked his crumpled shirt with distaste, before ambling off in the direction of the bathroom.

The bath was double width, with a broad ledge on the outer rim and central taps. It had cost Lestrade more than he could afford at the time, but he had never regretted the expense. He was still stripping off when Mycroft knocked and entered the room with clean towels, before he switched on the hot tap of the bath.

"Bubbles or oil?" he asked, his tone so matter of fact that it didn't occur to Lestrade to query Mycroft acting as his valet.

Lestrade exhaled softly, rolling his stiff neck. "Bubbles. I could do with a bit of frivolity right now."

"Bubbles it is," said Mycroft, above the noise of the bath filling. Steam began to coil around the room. "Why are you getting in the shower?"

"To get clean. Then I can soak," said Lestrade, as if it should have been obvious.

Mycroft left him to it. By the time he got back, Lestrade was just sinking into the bath, which was so full that he was in danger of slopping water over the side.

"Perfect," he groaned, leaning his head back against the rolled towel Mycroft handed him.

"Almost." Mycroft produced a chilled bottle of lager.

Lestrade stared at it in astonishment. "How the hell did you know my brand, given how rarely I drink?"

"Secret squirrel," Mycroft explained. He had the satisfaction of seeing Lestrade give his first faint grin. 

"You're definitely a keeper. What about you?" Lestrade gestured to the bottle.

"Not really a lager man."

"No," agreed Lestrade.

Mycroft tried not to watch his lips closing around the head of the bottle, the movement of his throat as he swallowed. Now definitely wasn't the time.

As practised in putting people at their ease as the reverse, Mycroft offered an inconsequential stream of froth, which required little or no effort on Lestrade's part and during which he disposed of two helpings of soup. By the time he finally left the bath, he was prune-y, more relaxed and half-asleep.

One arm tucked over Mycroft and the bedcovers drawn up to the tips of his ears, he mumbled,"Thanks," but was asleep before Mycroft could respond.

Mycroft made the delightful discovery that Gregory with lager-breath was less appealing than Gregory without it. But preferable to an empty bed.

oOo

By mid-afternoon on New Year's Eve Lestrade had cleared the paperwork linked to the case, and sent home his team, after warning them not to get too drunk seeing in the new year.

When he was as certain as he could be that he was going to be free for the rest of the day, he phoned Mycroft. "I'd like to take you out to for the evening. Should I let security know where, so they can check it out?"

"Or you could just tell me," suggested Mycroft.

"Okay. Do you like the theatre?"

"Yes, although I rarely get the chance to go."

"Only there's a one man show on about Dickens that's had rave reviews and I managed to get a couple of tickets. Bugger, I forgot to get any for your security," groaned Lestrade.

"That's not a problem," Mycroft assured him. "I would enjoy that very much. Shall I meet you outside the Yard?"

"That would be great. How's your security going to feel about you being out in a crowd?"

"I wasn't planning to ask their permission. What time will you be free?"

"If all stays calm, five-ish. Perhaps we could have a drink beforehand? Or an early meal?"

"I know just the place. And you can leave your stained tie in your desk drawer," Mycroft anticipated. "Not a Michelin star in sight."

"Have you got a camera in my office?"

"An excellent idea, but sadly no. I assumed you might object."

"Wise man. Will Edith be coming too?"

"I'm afraid not. Is that a deal breaker?"

"I suppose I'll have to make do with just you," said Lestrade, in a long-suffering tone. "Is David still on holiday?"

"Three children under five," Mycroft reminded him, not for the first time failing to follow Gregory's thought processes. It was part of his appeal.

"So Fatima then. I think she hates me," Lestrade confided.

"Actually, I'm the one feeling the weight of her disapproval. She was anticipating a warmer destination than West Kensington."

"As you were," remembered Lestrade, his voice flattening out.

"Anthea sends me abroad to ensure I take a holiday but I burn too easily to enjoy hotter climates, quite apart from the fact I don't thrive in hot weather."

"Oh, right," said Lestrade, his voice relaxed again. "See you in an hour or so then."

 

As the theatre emptied, Lestrade and Mycroft were temporarily separated by the insistent flow of people. Lestrade only relaxed when he was back at Mycroft's side.

"I haven't seen any of your people," he said, scanning the area.

"You're not supposed to. Relax, Gregory. The car will be here in a minute or two. I thought Callow was in excellent form."

"It was great."

Alerted by something in Gregory's voice, Mycroft gave him a curious look. "You weren't expecting to enjoy it?"

"I got put off the theatre. Julia only liked musicals," explained Lestrade with a grimace. "None of them were my kind of music."

"Duly noted," said Mycroft. "Perhaps some Ibsen or Chekhov..."

"If they're the ones I'm thinking of, I could do without suicide and gloom." Lestrade tucked his arm into the crook of Mycroft's. "What would you like to do next?"

"Well, I have a cunning plan..."

Lestrade swung round, delight on his face. "You're a _Blackadder_ fan!"

"I've been known to indulge," Mycroft admitted.

"So what's this cunning plan of yours?"

"There's no need to sound so suspicious. Don't you trust me?"

Lestrade snorted.

"A foolish question on my part," Mycroft accepted. "Ah, here's the car."

"Great. Because I've been wanting to snog your face off for a good ten minutes."

"I apologise for keeping you waiting.

"Would you object if I obscure the windows?" Mycroft asked, as the car got underway. "Your knowledge of London will spoil the surprise."

His eyes sparkling, Lestrade shook his head. "What are you up to?"

"A surprise is hardly a surprise if you see it coming." Mycroft pointed out.

"Obscure away," invited Lestrade, just before he began to carry out his threat. He was an exceedingly good kisser. 

By the time the car drew to a final halt, Mycroft was looking distinctly rumpled.

"I've never known thirty minutes go so fast," mumbled Lestrade, his own mouth slightly swollen by this time.

"Fifty minutes," said Mycroft, as he checked that his clothing was fastened under his overcoat. "Traffic was heavier than expected. Plus there are various diversions in place due to the crowds gathering along the Thames to watch the firework display." He could only hope he was talking in complete sentences. He glanced at his watch and saw they still had forty minutes before the new year. "Would you do me a favour and keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open them?"

"Of course," said Lestrade simply.

The trust on his face stole Mycroft's breath away and for a moment he forgot everything, before the rear door was opened by Fatima.

Lestrade immediately shut his eyes but he held tightly to Mycroft's hand.

"Is it all right if I listen?" he asked, as the cold air hit his face.

"It won't help much, so listen away. There's a step up here. And another five up here."

"It's really quiet," noted Lestrade, as they entered somewhere warm, used a lift that was both quick and quiet, emerged, and walked along somewhere carpeted.

Mycroft maintained an unhelpful silence.

"I'd pinch your bum except I wouldn't want to shock Fatima," said Lestrade, as they finally came to a halt.

"We're alone. But please resist. You can open your eyes." Mycroft moved to one side, the better to enjoy Gregory's expression.

It was all he had hoped for.

His mouth parting, Lestrade just stared at Tower Bridge, which seemed to loom outside the vast floor to ceiling wall of glass; the bridge was lit up more than usual for the festivities, the river awash with small boats, crowds lining the Thames. The apartment offered a ridiculously close view of everything but his gaze kept returning to the river.

"Mycroft, this is..." His voice cracked. "...the best present ever."

The wonder on his face, in stark contrast to the stress of recent days, made all the difficulties involved in arranging this worthwhile.

"I hoped you would enjoy it," said Mycroft with fine understatement. He had little experience of buying presents that weren't for work colleagues and had begun to worry that he might have made a mistake. "There's a terrace upstairs, if you would rather sit up there. Although it will be a little chilly."

"I'll keep you warm," Lestrade promised, taking his hand.

In fact they were sheltered from the wind by the high glass walls that surrounded the terrace but which did nothing to obscure the views up and down river. They settled on a wide wooden lounger together, snuggled under the king-sized duvet Mycroft had the forethought to snatch from one of the beds. 

"How did you find this place?" asked Lestrade, long after they had seen in the new year with a magnificent firework display, the sound of bells and cheering echoing across the water.

"A little research. I quite enjoyed it."

" _You_ arranged this?"

Mycroft shrugged. "I had the time and it seemed a pity to disturb Moneypenny's holiday."

Lestrade gave him a fond look.

"What?" said Mycroft defensively.

"Nothing," soothed Lestrade. "Are you warm enough?"

Mycroft decided a nod didn't count as a lie.

"How did you know this would be so...perfect?" asked Lestrade, with a flamboyant gesture.

"Your library gave me a clue. Not to mention various discussions we've had."

"It's bloody brilliant. Honest to God, Mycroft. You couldn't have thought of anything more perfect. And if it wasn't for the lure of the view, I'd say thank you properly. Or improperly."

"I can wait," said Mycroft, straight-faced. To his sorrow, the kiss he received was on the absent-minded side. There again, he was trying to compete with the Thames, he reminded himself.

"Have you ever been inside the engine-room of the Tower?" asked Lestrade. He proceeded to give a lengthy, and relatively entertaining lecture on the subject before slowly sinking into sleep, his head tucked under Mycroft's chin.

Mycroft waited fatalistically for it to start raining, wondering quite when he had lost any pretence of control over this relationship. 

 

Mycroft woke to find that he was the only occupant of the bed they had enjoyed for less than two hours. It didn't require his deductive abilities to guess Gregory was back out on the terrace. He pulled on a bathrobe and went off to find him. Mug of tea in hand, Lestrade was shaved and dressed for work. He turned from the rail to smile his welcome.

"Thanks for remembering we'd need clean clothes. Good morning."

"You don't have to rush into work?" enquired Mycroft, flinching when a chilly hand slipped inside his towelling bathrobe.

"Oh, sorry." Lestrade removed his hand. "Donovan can call me if anything crops up. I didn't want to waste the chance to watch the sun come up from here."

"Given the low level of cloud, I don't hold out much hope. You'll have several chances yet. The apartment is ours for another three days."

"You booked it for a week?"

Mycroft shrugged. 

"I'm sorry to have wasted half of it. Three more days, eh? Is this your subtle way of asking me to come back to bed?"

"I hadn't thought of that," admitted Mycroft, chagrined.

Lestrade grinned. "Lucky you've got me then. Are you awake?"

"Tea would help," allowed Mycroft, relieving Lestrade of the mug he held. He took a mouthful, then grimaced. 

"It's your fault for making sure there was some PG Tips here," Lestrade pointed out as they went inside. "This place is amazing," he added on a note of discovery, as he took in the expensive luxury of the vast rooms.

"You didn't even notice last night."

"With the lure of that outside? And you inside," Lestrade added, after a carefully calculated pause. But his attention was on that pale pink mouth.

Lost under the heady weight of Gregory's gaze, Mycroft padded closer, until he was pinning Lestrade against one of the picture windows. He kissed him long and slow, one hand busy with fasteners, buttons and zips, baring Lestrade, before mouthing his way down the bared torso. He sank to his knees, only to give a cut-off sound of pain a few seconds later, before collapsing onto his side, clutching one knee.

"Mycroft?"

Hastily rearranging his clothing, Lestrade crouched beside him.

"It's just...my fucking knee," grated Mycroft. "I forgot. I'm not supposed to kneel on hard surfaces. Bugger it!"

 

"It's fine," said Mycroft some time later, when he was stretched along one of the comfortable sofas, with Lestrade perched by his side.

"I still think you should see a doctor."

"Rubbish. It barely aches now I'm not kneeling on it. Apologies for ruining the mood."

"I'm just grateful your mouth wasn't full," joked Lestrade, but his eyes were still worried. 

He had noticed the scars left by Mycroft's accident of course - they were impossible to miss. The marks of the gravel burns on his hip and thigh were still discernible over a year later, let alone the neat surgical scars. Not that Mycroft ever referred to them, or showed any signs of discomfort - until this morning. 

He gently touched Mycroft's knee. "Does this hurt?"

"No," said Mycroft patiently. "Can we have sex now?" As he had anticipated, that successfully distracted Gregory.

oOo

Lestrade was strolling down the road to his flat, happily conscious that he had two days off to coincide with the end of Mycroft's holiday, when he saw a familiar figure, wearing a flattering overcoat in a rich shade of brown, ferrying bags from the car to his flat and back again for the next lot.

"Missing Len?" enquired Lestrade, relieving Mycroft of the next load.

"You have no idea." Mycroft retrieved another set of bags.

"Can't your people help?"

"As they pointed out, not without an unseemly degree of enjoyment, they might need their hands free." While Mycroft's delivery was dry, his eyes were warm with amusement. "I think they just enjoy watching me struggle."

"Good thinking on their part. Lock up behind you," Lestrade called.

He surveyed the sea of bags littering his living room. "At least you survived the Sales."

"That's a matter of opinion." Mycroft started to check the contents of bags, before handing some to Lestrade. 

"Strewth, these are heavy!"

"I saw a few books I thought you might enjoy while I was browsing in Hatchards. The rest are dull. Some new shirts - boring and white, except for a couple with a discreet check. I took the liberty of buying you a couple of ties identical to your court tie."

Lestrade relaxed when he saw the shirts and ties came from Marks & Spencer rather than some designer whose name he couldn't pronounce, before the realisation hit. "Hang on, you braved M&S in the Sales?"

"That was a miscalculation on my part. But David said that was where you shopped. I had no idea of the feeding frenzy I would find there. How dazzled people are when they been persuaded they're getting a bargain." Mycroft busied himself cleaning out the ash from the fire of the previous night, before setting and lighting a new fire with a skill Lestrade hadn't expected.

"You're a cynic," said Lestrade, as he dumped the bucket of cold ashes outside the French doors. "Even if those logs you ordered were a touch of genius."

"Why aren't you cynical? After all you've seen and experienced." Mycroft rose to his full height and hung his overcoat over the back of a chair.

"I'm not sentimental." Lestrade recognised the defensive note in his voice because he thought he probably was - a bit.

"I'm explaining myself badly. I meant rather that you haven't allowed your work to scuff the gloss off life. You still find joy in the simplest of things."

Lestrade shrugged as he brought over a tray of tea and biscuits. "That depends what day of the week it is - and whether my Chief Super is being a dick. Not to mention Sherlock."

"No, let's not."

"It's probably just that, compared to you, I'm Mary Poppins."

Mycroft gave a theatrical grimace. "Loathsome woman."

"But you had a nanny," said Lestrade with certainty.

"Plural," said Mycroft with resignation. 

"I bet you were a right little horror."

"You must be thinking of Sherlock."

"Self-deception is a terrible thing."

"By the time he arrived I was too old for a nanny." 

Lestrade hid his grin. That had sounded perilously close to a whine. "You were seven, not Methuselah. Have a ginger nut?"

Relaxed enough to have forgotten his self-imposed embargo on sugar, Mycroft took one and unconsciously copied Lestrade, who dunked his biscuit in his mug of tea.

Mycroft bit into the soggy biscuit, just before a portion plopped into his bone china cup, where it immediately sank.

"That's disgusting. Why did you let me do that?" he asked, his face wearing an exaggerated expression of pained disbelief.

Lestrade suppressed the urge to kiss him, suddenly and completely happy. "Because I'm a terrible person. Do you have anything planned for the weekend? I'm off-duty."

"Excellent. No, nothing."

"Then do you fancy visiting the British Museum? Only I've always wanted to go there but have never got round to it. And if you're with me you'll be able to answer any questions I have."

"So I'm to be your walking encyclopaedia?"

"Not to mention my bit of rough. How much do I owe you for the shirts and ties?"

Mycroft just swallowed his automatic response in time. "I believe the receipt is in one of the bags. The books are a gift," he added pointedly. He realised mentioning them had been a mistake when Lestrade immediately rummaged until he found the bags from Hatchards, sat on the floor in front of the fire and began to browse.

"It's a brilliant selection," he said, a considerable time later. "Speaking of which, I got you some DVDs this lunchtime." He glanced around the room in a vacant kind of way. "I know I was carrying the bag when I came down the road."

"What does it look like?"

"No idea. But it'll have HMV on it. It's just half a dozen Basil Rathbone films - the ones with sword fights."

"I shall look forward to watching them," said Mycroft.

They both looked round for the TV that wasn't there at the same time.

"Ah," said Lestrade. "Are you fed up with shopping? Only I think it's time to buy a TV. We could get one tomorrow."

"May I contribute a coffee table to put our feet on?" asked Mycroft.

"Only if I can buy you a tea pot. Much as I enjoy your look of pain every time you have to put the loose tea leaves in the measuring jug..."

"I've got used to it now," Mycroft assured him, relieving Lestrade of the book he was holding.

Lestrade interrupted his intent with no difficulty, given what Mycroft's other hand was doing. "I'll go and get..."

"You said you tested clean," Mycroft reminded him.

"Yes." As he absorbed the implication behind the statement, Lestrade's smile lit his entire face.

 

"Sex in front of the fire isn't all it's cracked up to be," mused Lestrade, his mouth against Mycroft's armpit and a draught whistling across his backside, because Mycroft was the one with his back to the fire.

"I think a rug might be more comfortable than floorboards," allowed Mycroft, his thumb describing a circle in the downy hollow of Lestrade's back. "If you hadn't pushed us off the sofa..."

"You drove me to it," Lestrade pointed out. "You sure you didn't hurt your knee?" he added in a different tone.

"It wasn't my knee I landed on," Mycroft reminded him.

"I kissed it better."

"And discovered in the process that the floor wasn't as clean as you'd assumed."

Lestrade began to laugh. "My poor Mycroft, what have I done to you?"

Mycroft raised his head to peer at him. "You can't remember? Perhaps I should jog your memory. Only in bed this time."

"My back thanks you. We'd best add a rug to the shopping list. I can afford it," Lestrade added, as he correctly interpreted Mycroft's expression. "My mortgage rate has plummeted, thanks to the banking crisis."

"Not all bad then," said Mycroft, straight-faced. 

Lestrade kissed him. "Thank you," he added.

"For what?"

"For not offering to pay for it. You're sure you're comfortable here - our present location excluded?"

"I'm positive. And if you'd care to move, I can take you to bed and prove it."

"If you insist. I must admit, there are advantages to you being around - it's like having a house elf." said Lestrade provocatively, as he watched Mycroft make up the fire, before setting the guard around it.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Try calling me Dobby and - "

"You've read Harry Potter!"

"Gregory, everyone's either read Harry Potter, or watched the films."

"Which category do you fall in to?"

"The former. It helps in my work to keep abreast of popular culture."

"So... _X Factor, Strictly Come Dancing_..."

Mycroft gave him a quelling look. "There are limits."

 

But some hours later, while Gregory slept, Mycroft began to wonder just what those limits might be. He was at a loss to know what was happening to him. He felt far too content for it to be love; the short period when he had fancied himself 'in love' with Yves had been the unhappiest of his life. But more than that, it was disconcerting how well Gregory seemed to understand him. His work meant that he had perfected the art of looking inscrutable. While, to his intense irritation, it had never worked with Sherlock, Gregory was also showing signs of being immune. And given there were times when he would need to be economical with the truth, that could be difficult.

Beside him, Lestrade stirred lethargically. "You all right?" he mumbled.

"Very," said Mycroft, kissing his shoulder. "Go back to sleep."

"'kay."

As he listened to Gregory's faint snores, it occurred to Mycroft that he couldn't be the first person in his position to face similar difficulties. He would just have to think of a way of dealing with them.

oOo

 

"So, back to work today," said Lestrade, gently tugging semen-speckled auburn chest hair.

"Trying to get rid of me?"

"The time went too fast. And we've barely started on what the British Museum has to offer."

"Partly because you felt the need to keep returning to - "

"Dinosaurs are cool."

"There's no need to sound so defensive."

"Don't give me that. You enjoyed them too," said Lestrade with certainty.

"Yes, I did," Mycroft admitted, preferring not to add that much of his enjoyment had stemmed from the company of the man still slumped half over him.

"What time is the car arriving to pick you up?"

"Not until eight. I can offer you a lift."

"I'd best not. That time of the morning, the traffic - "

"I believe we'll catch green lights all the way," murmured Mycroft.

"Yeah? Excellent. Then we have time to shower together." His expression suddenly serious, Lestrade, pushed himself up to stare down at Mycroft but he couldn't bring himself to ask the question which had been haunting him, wary of the reply he might get.

"I promise we can go back to the British Museum," said Mycroft. His reached up to cup the back of Lestrade's neck before he eased him down for a kiss, grateful that Gregory had allowed him to get away with the evasion.

 

Pleasantly surprised by how little paperwork had accumulated on his desk over the weekend, Lestrade paused when he saw the reports from forensics and the pathologist on the body found in Hengist Alley, almost under the window of Mycroft's former boss. After reading it, he called Moneypenny.

"Morning. Is himself likely to be back at mine tonight?" he asked.

"Is there a problem, sir?"

"Not at all. Just that I've finally got the forensics and pathologist's reports on the body in Hengist Alley and wasn't sure if I should send them over to you, rather than give them to him in person."

"Mr Holmes is at a meeting until mid-afternoon but I believe he hopes to be free after six thirty this evening."

"Excellent. I'll see him then."

 

They were relaxing in front of the fire, digesting the risotto Lestrade had made, when he produced the paperwork.

"The Hengist Alley case. The reports from forensics and the pathologist finally came in confirming it _was_ death by natural causes. While we still haven't got an ID for the bloke, his dental work is Polish. Interpol are pursuing with the Polish authorities but the holidays have slowed everything down. It appears the bloke fancied a walk on the wild side and went partying with the wrong crowd. The working girls were genuine enough, but the vodka was concocted in someone's lockup. You don't want to know what was in it. A couple of other people ended up in Casualty around the same time. We've traced the corner shop which sold it, now we're trying to locate the people who manufactured it. But I shouldn't hold your breath, it's happening a lot. Given how much - and what - he'd drunk, it was a wonder he made it as far as the alley before collapsing. The cold finished him off. Here are copies of everything to date."

"Thank you," said Mycroft, taking the folder from him and placing it in his briefcase. He sat up to find Lestrade staring at him.

"You already knew that, didn't you," recognised Lestrade.

"Gregory, I can't - won't - discuss my work with you."

Lestrade's face closed to the sullen look it assumed when he was trying to conceal what he felt. "Okay." He left the sofa, only to stalk back seconds later. "Only it isn't, because if one of my Murder Team is a snitch... If they're leaking information to you, then to who else? _The Sun_? The Russian Mafia? I can't even rely on the people I work with!"

Still seated, Mycroft met his gaze full on but his own expression gave nothing away. "Don't play me, Gregory," he said quietly into the silence.

"Then stop treating me like a moron! You don't trust me!"

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose before he gave one of the peculiar grimaces usually seen when he was in the company of his brother. "If that were true, I wouldn't be here. I trust you, both personally and professionally. That said, I will _never_ share details of my work with you. What you don't know, you can't be forced to reveal. Do you understand?"

Lestrade remained where he was for several seconds, the anger draining from his face, before he exhaled noisily and plumped down on the sofa beside Mycroft. "Yes," he admitted.

"As for your team, they aren't necessarily the ones responsible."

Lestrade gave him a sharp look, opened his mouth, then closed it again, before nodding at Mycroft and looking down to study the floor.

Mycroft watched that downbent profile with troubled eyes. "I knew there would be difficulties and compromises to be made when I entered into this relationship," he said into the silence, his calm, quiet voice compelling attention. "What I failed to appreciate was that you would be the one making the most difficult compromises. And for that, I'm sorry. But I can't do anything to change it."

Lestrade curled round on his seat, so they were facing one another. "It's really irritating when you see both sides of an issue," he complained without heat.

"It's what I'm paid to do. Only there are usually more sides."

"I bet there are. You could have asked me to send the papers to Moneypenny. We could have avoided this conversation altogether."

"Yes."

"You wanted me to know?"

"You're an intelligent man and a seasoned detective. It seemed inevitable that you would suspect. I deemed it preferable to - "

"This is a warning, isn't it," interrupted Lestrade. "That this won't necessarily be the only time our work collides."

"Yes," confirmed Mycroft, unflinching.

"Okay then."

Mycroft found himself wishing for a cigarette.

"You've been doing your share of compromises," Lestrade said into the silence. "I could use a stiff drink."

"I imagine you could. Would tea do?" asked Mycroft, getting to his feet.

Lestrade nodded, watching idly as Mycroft moved around the small kitchen, looking perfectly at ease. At home. 

He got up to rummage in the fruit bowl, then the drawers in the table.

"Have you lost something?" said Mycroft, as he came in with the tea. 

"Temporarily misplaced," said Lestrade, as they settled on the sofa. "Here." He tossed a copy of the front door key to Mycroft. "I know your security people have one but you should have one of your own. For whenever you want to use it."

Mycroft stared at it for a moment, then nodded. "Thank you. I will. All I can offer you is tea,"he added wryly, as he passed Lestrade's mug to him.

"I'll take it." After his first mouthful, Lestrade paused, sipping slowly now.

"I don't know what you've done to the tea, but it tastes fantastic."

Mycroft looked faintly smug.

"Tell me it's not one of yours?" Lestrade begged.

"And lie?" mocked Mycroft. "It's just Darjeeling. But from a decent supplier, not the sweepings off the warehouse floor. I shopped on the way here."

"And bought up Waitrose again?" Lestrade's smile reached his eyes this time.

Mycroft thought it best not to mention Fortnum and Mason.

 

oOo

 

Because his working day had finished earlier than expected, Mycroft decided to go walkabout rather than take tea at the Diogenes Club; he needed the exercise after the hours of sitting, and the weather was unexpectedly clement for mid-January. Now, if only no one was inconsiderate enough to get murdered, he and Gregory could...

Lost in happy anticipation, it was moment before Mycroft appreciated that he was being hailed.

"Co-ee! Mycroft! Mycroft Holmes!"

He paused, his umbrella mid-twirl, then turned with a degree of reluctance to find himself facing a diminutive women of uncertain years and poor dress sense.

"Martha?"

"That's Mrs Hudson to you, dear," she said placidly. "Martha Fisher as was. You were right about Mr Hudson, even if I didn't thank you for the information at the time. He was - is - a thoroughly bad lot. But handsome... You'd think I'd learn.

"Don't you look smart," she broke off to add, fingering the edge of his open overcoat. "And I said you'd slim down, didn't I? Pity about the ginger, of course. But now your hair's receding it's hardly noticeable."

"Thank you," said Mycroft, reminding himself that it didn't do to take Martha's batty act at face value.

He glanced over her shoulder to his smirking security detail and raised an eyebrow.

Sobered in a heartbeat, they had the sense to move out of earshot.

It was difficult to command the respect of someone who had known you since you were seven, but at least she'd never changed his nappies. And yet Sherlock had still been her favourite...

"It's been a delightful surprise to meet you like this," he murmured with oiled sincerity, "but I really must get on."

Mrs Hudson gave him a look so sharp that he gave an involuntary grin. She'd never taken any nonsense from Sherlock, either.

"I see you haven't changed," she said.

Mycroft didn't mistake the comment for a compliment. 

"But I'm glad to have run in to you like this. I was going to call. Len gave me your number. Len that works for you," she prompted, when he just stared at her.

"I hadn't forgotten," Mycroft assured her dryly, resigned to his fate. If Len thought he should see Martha, it must be serious. And he owed her a great deal for keeping Sherlock out of Father's way until he got home from school each day.

"Well, Len said... What am I thinking. You must come in and have a cup of tea while I tell you all about it. I've been that worried."

"Whatever the problem is, I'm sure that between us we'll be able to sort it out," said Mycroft, in the soothing tones that steadied panicking prime ministers. "Do you require a lift home?"

"What? Of course not. 221 Baker Street, that's me. Just there, you see? I let rooms. Well, not the flat in the basement. The mould keeps coming back, no matter what I do. And I'm in flat A. I can't manage many stairs with my hip. But B is renting out to a lovely couple. They've rented the place for the entire year they're over here and they're no trouble." Her face clouded. "They're a bit of a disappointment if you must know. Dull as can be."

Mycroft steered her towards the shabby café. "Why don't we let my assistant open up and put on the kettle?" He removed the keys from her grasp and passed them behind him. "Perhaps you and I could buy some cake from this delightful establishment."

"You always did have a sweet tooth," she said, tucking her arm into his.

About to make a tart retort, Mycroft noticed the toll the years had taken since he had seen her last, and the fear she couldn't quite hide. "Yes," he said peaceably, "I did."

"I can't tell you how grateful I am," Mrs Hudson said, as he opened the café door for her. "Only I keep having these nightmares that they let him off."

"Off?"

"Death Row, dear. Now, how about a nice ginger cake?"

It occurred to Mycroft that her problem might be more interesting than he had anticipated.

oOo

 

It was only when Lestrade opened his front door and saw Sherlock standing on the doorstep that he realised how ill the younger man had looked before he went into the clinic.

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed, just before he took him in a fierce hug.

"Lestrade! What are you...?" Looking mildly panicked by such an overt display of emotion, Sherlock freed himself and took a step back.

"Relax. I'm just pleased to see you," said Lestrade, amused. "You look fantastic."

"Oh." Obviously disconcerted, Sherlock twitched his coat straight, rearranged his scarf, and composure regained, said, "Have you got a case?"

"Nothing new. When did you get out?"

"Sunday. But I had to find a new flat and get my possessions out of Mycroft's clutches. Here." Sherlock handed Lestrade a piece of paper. "My new address. I'm flat sharing."

Lestrade thought of the state of Sherlock's last two places and placed a mental bet on how long that would last. But there had been the faintest trace of pride in Sherlock's statement - and Sherlock had come round with the address instead of ringing, so he didn't tease. "Yeah? Good for you. Come in. I'll make some tea. I promise not to hug you again."

"No, it's fine. I have things to do."

"Then I'll see you - " Lestrade's phone vibrated. "Hang on, I just need to take this call." He fished in his pocket and when he looked up, Sherlock had disappeared.

By the time Lestrade had pulled on a coat, locked the front door and gone up onto the street there was a taxi waiting, with Sherlock inside.

"How do you do that?" Lestrade asked, after he had given the driver the address and cancelled the police car that was on its way to collect him.

"It was obvious the call was about a new case."

"Not that. How did you manage to get a taxi? Round here they're like gold dust."

"Why do you insist on wasting your time on inessentials? No, don't tell me. The case. What do you know?" His eyes bright with excitement, a faint colour to his usually pale cheeks, Sherlock was the picture of health.

"Well, this one sounds as if it could be right up your street..."

oOo 

"Good meeting, sir?" asked Anthea brightly, as Mycroft returned to the rooms they were currently using as his office, two hours late.

He gave her a quelling look. "Balasha, do I appear to be in the mood for witticisms?"

"Sir?" Anthea asked, alerted by his use of her given name.

"The morning wasn't a total loss," Mycroft conceded. "And unless I'm mistaken we're about to become exceedingly busy. But first, a personal matter. I should like to arrange a meeting with my brother's new flatmate - James Maxwell. He's a newly qualified doctor at Bart's. A fashionable restaurant, I think. As ostentatious as you like."

oOo

 

Sherlock failed to slam the door to his flat in time to block Mycroft's entry.

"Good morning, brother. Settling in?" asked Mycroft brightly, as he strolled into the cramped, shabby living room with its seventies wallpaper and poorly fitted windows.

"Except for the fact I no longer have someone to share the rent with."

"I'm sorry to hear that. The Trust can cover the excess rent until you find a new flatmate. Though why you would want to live in Montague Street..."

"I like it," said Sherlock defiantly.

"No, you don't."

"If you hadn't stuck your long nose into my business..."

"Sherlock, he sold you out in less than five minutes. And for a derisory sum."

Sherlock sighed and subsided onto a cane chair; dust rose up into the air. "He was a fool," he admitted. "We could have split the proceeds between us. I'm fine," he added.

"I never doubted it."

"Then I don't know what you're hanging around for. If you think I'm going to feed you, you're sadly mistaken."

"I have a job for you."

"Boring."

Mycroft sighed. "Given that you can have no idea what it is..."

"Stun me."

"Do you remember Martha Fisher."

"Of course. She was my - our - nanny. Though I was her favourite," Sherlock added smugly.

"Yes, yes. Do you remember why she left?"

"To be married. Though why she had to stop being my nanny..."

"Don't whine. I warned you at the time that caring wasn't an advantage."

"Who said anything about caring? But she didn't complain about my experiments as much as the others. Is she all right?" Sherlock added abruptly.

"She married badly. Lewis Hudson, her husband, is currently residing in Florida State Prison. On Death Row."

"And she wants me to save him. Predictable."

"On the contrary. She wants you to ensure that he's executed as quickly as possible."

His interest piqued, Sherlock lounged back in his chair, flicking the end of the belt of his silk dressing gown from side to side. "I'll need money. Probably quite a lot of it. And I refuse to fly anything but first class."

Mycroft handed him a credit card. "Use this. Treat the Americans with respect."

"Why? You'll rescue me."

"Unless I succumb to the temptation to leave you there," said Mycroft dryly.

Sherlock gave a sniff of disdain. "You've got a new lover," he noted out of the blue.

"I believe I already knew that," said Mycroft, resigned to the fact that Sherlock would have to know the truth one day. He tossed Sherlock a new BlackBerry. "This contains all the contact details you should need. Your flight leaves at 9.40 this evening. Here's the necessary paperwork."

"What's the rush?" 

"She's worried. Terrified," Mycroft amended simply. "Will you do it?"

For a moment Sherlock forgot to scowl. "Of course. Well, piss off. I need to pack," he added in a more familiar tone. 

As Mycroft got to his feet, Sherlock added, "Do you still have my violin?"

"Of course." Mycroft turned. "Would you like it back?"

"Not just yet. Perhaps on my return. I'll let you know."

Mycroft nodded and left with a wave of his furled umbrella. 

Only Sherlock's desperation for a case of any interest had prevented him from seeing the obvious flaws. If additional evidence against Hudson was found, it would require a trial, which would effectively keep him alive for several years, defeating the purpose of the exercise. Of course, he could have ensured Hudson was immediately despatched but Mrs Hudson had relaxed the moment she knew Sherlock would be looking into the matter and this problem was just what Sherlock needed at this point. Besides, once he'd found the evidence, Hudson would be surplus to requirements. Even on Death Row unfortunate accidents weren't unknown and the Americans owed him a favour.

 

THE END  
to be followed by _Joining the Dots_ , Part 5 of _Fire and Ice_


End file.
